Circle
by OodHappenings
Summary: An intriguing mystery and a series of murders do nothing to ease the tension in 221B Baker Street. If anything, they only make things that much more exciting. My first Sherlock fic. JohnLock main pairing. Rated for swearing and later chapters. Now with it's very own sequel, 360 Degrees.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of a phone vibrating on wood drew John's head up from his paper. He knew that it was most likely Lestrade, with another case for Sherlock and-by extension-himself.

"A case?" John said absentmindedly, watching his formerly stoic flat mate start to move.

"Yes, easily an eight."

John watched as Sherlock bounced up from the couch and strode to the door of their flat.

"Sherlock," John stated, pausing the detective in mid-stride. "Shouldn't you put on something a bit more… presentable? Going out in your house coat might not work so well at a crime scene."

The detective looked down at himself, slightly surprised to find that he was, in fact, still in his pajamas. He huffed indigently and stomped to his room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

Meanwhile, John stood, folded the paper, and walked to the mirror on the wall. He examined himself, straitening his jumper and trying to smooth his tousled locks. He caught a glimpse of something in the corner of the mirror, and was surprised to see none other than Sherlock, topless and pulling a shirt over his shoulders. The doctor felt his face flush and his mouth go dry, a reaction that he immediately regretted. Sherlock was his flat mate. And he was straight damn it! There was no reason for him to get all hot and bothered over that creamy expanse of alabaster skin. The doctor shook himself, and straitened his jumper yet again. As he turned around, he stumbled into Sherlock.

Sherlock noticed John's slightly flushed complexion, but said nothing, knowing that mentioning it would simply earn him a dismissive comment. When John stumbled into him, the detective snatched his hand to steady him, while surreptitiously taking his pulse. He was surprised to find that it was slightly elevated.

Sherlock let go, stepping back and studying him quickly. He made a mental note of the slightly dilated pupils, the parted lips, and the slight pink tinge to the skin. All signs of physical attraction.

Interesting.

He stepped back, waving his arms out to his sides. "Do I look more appropriate now? I'd really hate to delay those bodies any longer. Anderson might touch them."

He snarled his nose as if the very thought repulsed him, and John smirked, it probably did.

"Fine. You look… You look fine." He tried desperately not to stammer, but failed.

Turning to the door, he pulled it open for the detective. Sherlock breezed through, experimentally letting his side brush against the doctor. The sharp intake of breath was more than enough to confirm his suspicions. John cursed himself again for reacting before following the detective out of 221B.

Sherlock hailed a cab, observing that his blogger had his eyes cast down, to the left-anywhere but on him. It was the same when they got into the car. He considered commenting on it, but chose instead to observe. It was obvious that the doctor did not wish to express his feelings, and Sherlock had a strong feeling that he was even trying to suppress them.

"So this crime scene, you said it was an eight?" John croaked, trying to clear the tension. Sherlock nodded.

"Easily. Six bodies, all seemingly untouched, lying in a perfect circle on the floor of a warehouse. Lestrade thinks that it may be a pack suicide, but the lack of any sort of wounds or administration devices suggests otherwise."

John nodded, gazing back out the window.

"You don't suppose this could be anything like that one bloke, the one that, you know-" Sherlock whipped his head to gaze at the doctor, surprised to note the distress in his voice.

"No, I don't think that this is another sponsored killing. Though, I still wouldn't rule Moriarty out of it. I need to gather more data before I can create a hypothesis."

John smirked. "Right."

The detective glanced over the doctor once more, before turning to look out the window. They pulled up to a decrepit looking warehouse, already quartered off by police cruisers and lines. Donovan was waiting at the tape, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed in a glare of pure contempt.

"Oh look it's the freak and his boyfriend. Nice for the two of you to finally show up." John opened his mouth to give his usual '_not his boyfriend_' line, but decided against it. She wouldn't listen anyway.

Sherlock held the tape for John, before ducking under it himself. Lestrade met them halfway to the door, relief twinkling in his eyes.

"Good you're here they are right-"

Sherlock interrupted the detective Inspector. "Did he touch them?"

"Who?" Lestrade asked, pausing.

"Anderson, did he touch them?"

Lestrade made to ask why, but stopped himself. "No, no one has touched the bodies since they were discovered."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied, and walked up to the crime scene, pulling on the latex gloves that a technician had offered him. He walked around the group of bodies, only pausing to stop and examine them more closely. John simply watched him, fascinated-as always-by the way his mind worked.

"Where is the other one? " Sherlock asked after a brief amount of time.

Lestrade looked at the detective in shock. "What other one, Sherlock? Is 6 bodies not enough?"

The detective responded with a glare, and John took another look around the crime scene. Sure enough the six bodies were arranged in a near perfect circle, save a gap across from where Sherlock was standing.

"There is a space, over there, where a body should be." The doctor pointed to it, and Sherlock gave him a look of-was that _pride_?"

Lestrade just shook his head. "So? There is a space. That doesn't mean that a body is missing."

John could sympathize with Sherlock now, as he was exasperated by the DI's short-sightedness. "If they had gone to all this trouble to create a near perfect circle, it's a bit suspicious that they would leave such a glaring error. Judging by their approximate ages and the fact that they are all equally pale, they're most likely college kids, studying here in London. Take a look at their clothes. They are all dressed nearly identically; even their hair is the same color and cut. There is no difference between the boys and the girls. That suggests a cult or group of some sort." The doctor glanced, up and looked to the window.

"The gap is facing east, typically a direction associated with religious purposes. If you ask me, the body we're missing belongs to the leader of the group, or someone of high importance, at least." He paused, and saw that the majority of people in the room had stopped to stare at him. Even Sherlock was gazing at him open-mouthed, obviously stunned by his outburst. John could feel the heat of a blush pulling at his ears.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Brilliant."

The blush took over the doctor's face, and he gazed at his shoes.

Lestrade glanced between the two of them. "Bloody Hell, you're turning into Sherlock."

John and glanced at the detective, who looked slightly dazed and-_flushed_?

Sherlock coughed. "John is right; however I still don't think that it's a cult suicide. Look for psycho active drugs and hallucinogens on their persons, as well as any sort of identification on the premises. If this _was_ a suicide cult, then they probably wouldn't have any personal possessions around them. As for the leader: you're looking for a white male, between the ages of 18 and 34. Probably with a similar physical description to the victims. They were obviously attempting to emulate him. "

He peeled off his gloves, tossing them aside. "If you find anything you know how to find me."

The detective waltzed out of the room, John scurrying after him in a rush.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten minutes of fevered rushing, and the doctor finally caught up with the detective.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry about that, in there-"

Sherlock stopped short, spinning around to face the doctor, he looked distressed, his eyes searching and his brow furrowed.

"Why are you apologizing? You were absolutely correct."

John was taken aback, he opened his mouth-and then closed it-before trying again. "It's your thing. You know, reading a crime scene. I just got a bit carried away is all."

Sherlock's gaze softened and his lips parted slightly, before he composed himself once more. "I'm not upset that you deduced the crime scene John."

The doctor nodded. "Good."

They stood there for a moment, trying to organize themselves, before John's phone rang.

"Watson."

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, a silent question being put to the doctor. John mouthed, '_Mrs. Hudson'_ before turning his attention back to the phone.

"John dear, a package arrived at the door for you. Were you expecting one?"

The doctor squinted at Sherlock. "No, I didn't does it have a return address?"

There was a sound of rustling as the woman flipped the cube around in her hands. "No, I don't see one. It just has 'John Watson 221B Baker Street' scrawled across the front. It's pretty handwriting too. Very feminine."

John froze, and glanced at Sherlock, inexplicably guilty. "Just set it on our table. Thank you for telling me."

Sherlock had started walking again, and John hurried to follow the long legged detective as Mrs. Hudson's voice continued in his ear.

"No problem dear. Just don't get used to it. After all, I'm not your house keeper."

John chuckled softly, and closed his phone. Sherlock had made it a good twenty paces in front of him now, and the shorter man was forced into a run. He came up beside the detective, huffing for breath.

"Geeze, Sherlock, could you slow down a bit? Not all of us were graced with the legs of a bloody giraffe."

Sherlock slowed, but not without a derisive snort.

"I hardly have the legs of a giraffe, John. Besides, it's not my fault that you're built to resemble a hedgehog." The doctor's mouth fell open, and he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"I do not resemble a hedgehog." He paused, looking around himself. "Where are we going?"

The detective turned into another ally, this one dark and damp despite the noonday sun. "We are going behind the warehouse to search for anything that the police would have missed."

John nodded, and watched as Sherlock fluidly pulled himself up onto the lid of a dumpster.

"Aren't you coming?" Sherlock said, peeling off his coat and scarf before tossing them to John. The doctor glanced around, and then shook his head.

"I think I'll be of better use down here, holding your coat." He held the bundle up as if on display, giving Sherlock yet another pause. He decided against saying anything, instead opting to lower himself into the bin. He rummaged around, searching and digging for what he knew had to be there. John had been right, of course, and because of that there had to be a

"Eureka!" Sherlock shouted, throwing a fist into the air. John looked up and couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Find what you're looking for then?" Sherlock nodded, pocketing his prize before effortlessly swinging himself down.

"You were right when you said that these were college kids. Look at this." The detective pulled a plastic ID badge from his pocket.

"Karen Gillan, age 21. She was in the circle, wasn't she?" Sherlock nodded, and the doctor took a closer look at the badge. "This is dated just last month, but she looks nothing in this picture like she did in there."

Sherlock nodded again. "Whoever organized all this is a genius in marketing."

John eyed the detective warily. "You already have a suspect in mind, don't you?"

The detective grinned. "Three."

The doctor simply rolled his eyes, before tossing the coat and scarf back to the detective. "So what's next? We interview your suspects, we interview those who knew the victims, or we go grab a bite since it's 2 in the evening and _you_ made me skip breakfast."

Sherlock glanced back at the doctor, but said nothing. He simply walked back to the street and hailed another cab.


	3. Chapter 3

"Or you can be completely silent and disregard every word I say. Go ahead. You're the genius."

The detective frowned. He didn't like that John was aggravated. What's more is that he recognized this. He could usually disregard people's feelings fairly easily. They were such inconsequential pieces of data that they simply didn't register. But with John, things were different. He found that the doctor's emotions directly affected his own, and that very fact was jarring.

"We are going to go to back to 221B. I need to do some research. What about that package that Mrs. Hudson was telling you about? Do you know which lady friend dropped it off? "

John shook his head, not even bothering to ponder how the detective had figured that out. "I haven't the slightest."

Sherlock nodded, peering out the window of the cab. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, neither man looking at the other. As they pulled up in front of the flat, however, Sherlock made a show of getting out. He paid the cabby, opened the door, and took John's hand to help him out. The doctor was blushing furiously by the time that they reached the door.

"Sherlock." John whispered, slipping into the hall of 221B. Sherlock stopped walking, turning instead to face the doctor. They were nearly pressed together in the narrow corridor.

"Yes?"

The doctor swallowed. His proximity to the detective was wreaking havoc on his body. His mind doing little to control his raging emotions. He struggled for something-anything- to say, before turning and walking quickly up the stairs. Sherlock walked leisurely behind, observing. Processing.

The evidence of John's attraction to him was nearly insurmountable. The evidence of his own attraction was growing. Sherlock shut the door to their flat, heading straight over to John's laptop. Indeed the case of his apparent relationship was intriguing, a true mystery waiting to be solved.

However, murder takes precedence, and the detective simply could not afford to be distracted from a good murder.

John puttered around the kitchen, bent on making something edible from the sparse supplies available. That would be a sufficient enough puzzle to keep him from thinking about his emotions. A quick survey of the cupboard revealed various pickling body parts, and a jar of peanut butter. A small container of honey was mixed with the dried tongues in the drawer.

The doctor let out a triumphant whoop when he discovered that the bread was not only mold-free, but nearly fresh. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

He slapped the sandwich together, happy to finally have something in his stomach. His gaze fell on the package, clearly out of place amongst the various test tubes and lab equipment on the table. The doctor took another bite of his meal before reaching down and picking up the parcel.

It was a small cube, fitting easily in one hand, with only his name and 221B scrawled across the top of it. Mrs. Hudson had been right: it was obviously a woman's handwriting. The loop's and swirls were beautiful, but disconcerting for the doctor. No woman that he knew of wrote like this. Few of the women that he knew had any idea where he lived, and of those even fewer would give him the time of day, let alone a gift. He sat down, twirling the box around in his hands. It couldn't be Harry, her handwriting was nearly square, and Sarah's was the trite scrawl of a doctor.

"Don't know who it's from?"

John jolted, the package falling to the floor in his surprise. "God, don't DO that!"

Sherlock looked over at the doctor, confused. "Do what? Ask you rhetorical questions?"

"No, sneak up on me like that. You could have given me a heart attack!" John huffed indigently.

Sherlock smirked. "I hardly think so. You are fit enough that such stresses would not induce a heart attack."

The doctor wanted to say something, but the soft flutter in his stomach kept him still. Had Sherlock just complimented him?

The detective swooped down, plucking the box off the floor and examining it himself. "Interesting."

Without waiting for the doctor's approval, Sherlock ripped the box open. John made no motion to stop him, opting instead to watch the detective's mind work. A Chinese puzzle box slipped from the package and into the detective's hands. Without a moment's pause, he had the delicate wooden creation shattered against the kitchen floor. John was startled.

"Sherlock! What the hell was that about? Could you not have just puzzled through it? It was a gift!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, swooping down to retrieve a slender black piece from among the wreckage. "It wasn't a gift, John."

He held the device up, spinning it around nimbly in his fingers. It was blipping red on one end, with what looked like speaker ports on the other.

John clamped his mouth shut, recognizing a bug when he saw it. He pantomimed for the detective to follow him. Sherlock obliged, setting the device onto the table and following the doctor to his room.


	4. Chapter 4

"Thank you." John said simply, again surprising the detective.

"Why are you thanking me? The bug was obviously planted so that they could listen in on me."

The doctor crossed his arms once more. "Then why was it addressed to me?"

Sherlock gave the doctor yet another exasperated look.

"Because the mail I get goes straight into the garbage. Obviously whoever sent the package figured that you, with your parade of female companions, wouldn't think twice about a random gift from a lady. They also probably knew that you wouldn't attempt to figure the box out and would have-"

John held up a hand. "Hold on a moment, _parade of female companions_? I do not have a _'parade of female companions_.'" The doctor emphasized his point with air quotes.

"You have had 13 dates this past month. Those were with six different women. Granted only three of those ended in sexual intercourse-" John gawked at the detective, embarrassed that he could read all that so easily. "-but still more than is average for a man your age. As I was saying, whoever sent that, has been observing you for at the very least a month."

The doctor sighed, running a hand over his face and glancing back at Sherlock. "So what do we do about it?"

The detective smiled. "We are going to fight."

The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "What, _exactly_, are you talking about?"

The detective's smile broadened. He opened the door to the room, before pushing the doctor backwards roughly, knocking John's alarm clock to the floor in the process.

"You bumbling idiot! Do you realize how much work went into that? Days of research and you just knock it over like it's no big deal."

John stumbled for a moment, trying to regain his balance and figure out what his insane flat mate was talking about. "How's this _my_ fault? You _pushed_ me!"

It had clicked. Sherlock wanted to give whoever was listening in something to act on. Alright then.

"It isn't _my_ fault that you can't keep yourself balanced." John grinned, stomping down the stairs in a huff.

"Can't keep myself balanced? You want to talk unbalanced? Have you _seen _yourself?" Sherlock paused, the words digging into him. John didn't notice, he simply stomped playfully around the flat.

"You could be a bit more considerate! My experiments are delicate; you can't just go floundering around the house like that!"

John rolled his eyes, before knocking a stack of books off the end table. "I'll show you _floundering_."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Oh now you're just being childish. Honestly, John."

The doctor shrugged, knocking over a chair and then snatching his coat from the rack. "You want childish? Fine, I'll leave. I'm going to Greg's."

The detective got the hint, gesturing to his phone. John nodded a goodbye and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock paced the flat, grumbling nonsense as he picked up the mess his blogger had made. He knew the fight had been fake, but a few bits of it still jabbed at him. Did John really think him unstable? Why did it matter if he did? And why had someone attempted to bug the flat in the first place?

Sherlock walked over to the table, examining the blipping device carefully. It was obviously recording, probably transmitting everything that was happening directly to whoever sent it. That's it! The detective rushed into the living room, snatching John's laptop from its usual residence. A few moments and some typing later, and he had hacked directly into the signal. Its source was surprising, and it made the whole affair so much more interesting.

Meanwhile, John walked brusquely down the street, trying to keep up the charade that he was pissed at Sherlock. He knew that if someone _had _been watching him, then they would still be doing so.

He mumbled something under his breath and pulled out his phone, shooting a quick message to Lestrade about meeting him. He checked his phone again, doubling back on himself to go to Scotland Yard. He knew that Sherlock would meet him there eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

John was sitting in Lestrade's office, his hands folded in his lap. It had been two hours since his pretend fight with Sherlock, and the detective had yet to show his face. Normally his flat-mates sporadic timing was aggravating at the most, but this time it felt ominous. The silence of the room forced his mind to over compensate, and the doctor groaned as the events of the day unfolded before him. As his days go it had been fairly uneventful. No one had tried to kill him, or abduct him. No bombs had been planted on him. Just a few dead bodies and an attempt at espionage.

He rattled the pieces of the day together in his mind, trying to see what was making him so edgy. Was it the fact that there was another serial killer at large? No, such things had become painfully normal for him in the past year. Maybe it's the fact that someone had attempted to bug the flat. But even that worry felt wrong. Mycroft listened in on everything that he and Sherlock did, and that didn't bother him so bad.

Sherlock.

John leaned forward in his chair, his hands cradling his head. That was it. His whole day had been thrown of kilter by none other than Sherlock Holmes. All day he had been plagued by the man. Not his actions, but the doctor's own reactions to him. It wasn't a new thing. He had felt something akin to attraction to Sherlock before. But today it was if the entirety of those feelings were shifting painfully into focus. They were overpowering his carefully constructed walls of denial, and flooding through his list of assurances. The doctor sat up, his eyes widened with fear.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, as realization slammed into him with more force than any bullet ever had.

He had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had left the bug on the kitchen table, knowing that the person watching would assume that it was still safely hidden and totally unnoticed.

Idiot.

He practically ran to Scotland Yard, already concerned about the amount of time that had passed. As much as he hated to admit it, he was concerned for his flat mate, even more so now that their usual means of communication had been compromised. As if by habit he checked his phone again. Knowing that it would have no new information for him. He stormed into the building. Not one officer paying him any mind as he marched to Lestrade's office.

_There he is, he's ok_, Sherlock thought, but then stopped. _No he isn't, look at him_.

The detective frowned. John's eyes were tired, and his head drooped slightly. He looked like a man who had lost a battle. The doctor caught sight of the detective, and some of the fatigue left his features.

"Took you long enough," the doctor muttered, standing from his seat. Sherlock suppressed a smirk.

"I took the liberty of actually discovering who, exactly was attempting to listen in on us."

"You managed that in two hours' time?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "I managed that in twenty minutes. The rest of the time was spent feeding it false information and doing some research on our case."

"You never cease to amaze me," John said, shaking his head.

The detective felt a rush of warmth spread through him. "Yea, well. You'll be happy to know that we will not need to interview the families of the victims."

"Good. That's good. No need to make this any harder on them then."

"What are you two doing here?" Lestrade huffed, walking in and stopping short in front of the two men. He had a stack of papers in his arms, and a baffled expression graced his features.

"John has been here for the past two hours waiting on me while I worked to find your murder. What have you been doing?"

Lestrade tossed the packet of papers onto his desk, and turned.

"Interviewing the families of the victims. None of them had any idea that their child was part of any sort of cult. They all had seemed perfectly normal before the beginning of this session."

"That's because they were perfectly normal. The factors that led to this event were only introduced in the past month. Well, the past three weeks and four days. That is when these started popping up in student emails and on the walls of dormitories at King's College."

The detective pulled a printout from his coat pocket. Lestrade squinted down at it.

"_Bodau o Olau_," John looked up. "Beings of light."

The DI looked over at the doctor, startled.

"It's Welsh." Sherlock nodded, his earlier sense of pride rekindling for his blogger.

"This is the cult that those kids were part of? Beings of Light? This looks so-"

"Obvious? Yes, if it were being marketed as a cult. But read the description below." Both Lestrade and John leaned in towards the proffered paper.

"Helping to spread the light of literacy to the peoples of the London area." The doctor shook his head In dismay. "How does a volunteer group turn into a cult that ends with a mass murder?"

Sherlock shrugged and pulled his phone out once more. "I have a theory, but it needs more data. Until then: Lestrade, would you please bring these gentlemen in for questioning?"

He pressed a button on his phone , sending the detective inspector a list of names.

"Are these all of your suspects?"

Sherlock looked up, confused, but then shook his head.

"No, these are the people who the Bodau o Diau were slated to help. I doubt that any of them are your murder, but my thought is that one of them may know which body is missing."

Lestrade nodded, glancing down at his phone. "Is there any reason that Anderson's name is on this list?"

The detective simply turned and left, with John failing to surprise his smirk as he followed. They had nearly made it outside before John noticed.

"Are we not going to interview the people that Lestrade is bringing in?" The detective paused in his walking enough to get the door for the doctor.

"No. I'm sure that he can fissure it out on his own."

John looked around suspiciously, before tapping the detective lightly on the shoulder.

"So, what are we doing? Should we even still be seen together? Am I not still being watched?" Sherlock smirked.

"At this very moment it looks like we are attempting to make up after our little spat." The detective leaned into the doctor, their faces barely a breath apart. John felt the blood rushing to his cheeks at the sudden closeness of his flat mate. He thought, for a second, what it would be like to move. Just that fraction of an inch and he would be kissing him. He would finally be kissing Sherlock Holmes.

The detective pulled back, his eyes searching the doctors once more. He had been tempted to kiss the doctor. Far too tempted. It was only the knowledge that they were being watched that gave him the will to pull away. It wasn't that he was embarrassed by the thought of kissing John. It was the fact that such an act was dangerous. If people started to discover just how much he was growing to care for the doctor, then both of their lives would be needlessly put in danger. No, he would not make a public affair of this. Sherlock blinked back into focus. Aware that he had been silent for far too long.

"There? See? We're settled. Now hand me your phone." The doctor did as he was told, giving the device to the detective. He watched in horror as Sherlock tossed it over his shoulder and into the road. Where the evening traffic made quick work of it.

"Sherlock!" The detective grimaced at the mess in the road, before clucking his tongue.

"Had to be done."

John stopped.

"Had to be done? Had to be done! Please tell me. Why did it "have to be done?"

Sherlock looked at his doctor, barely ruffled by his rebukes.

"They were tracking you by it, as well as monitoring all of your calls and messages. It was a compromised device. Even after we deal with this round, the door was open for anyone to come around and take a peek into your personal things. I just saved you another utterly embarrassing moment of someone seeing one of your emails to a date."

The doctor paled. He really had not considered that.

"What am I supposed to do now? What if Sarah needs me at work?"

There was a twitch there, in Sherlock's features. A modicum of jealousy that wormed its way to the front. It didn't vanish, instead opting to sit there, in plain view. John noticed it, but saw it as the fact that the detective was always vying for his attention. Sherlock pulled a phone from his pocket and passed it to the doctor.

"Here. Use this one." John examined the phone carefully. It was silver and sleek, obviously new and expensive.

"Where did this come from? Did you buy this?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be absurd John. It's Lestrade's. You can give it back when we finish these cases."

The doctor sighed, pocketing the stolen phone.

"Now it appears that I've given you a gift in apology. Can we get back to work now, or do we need to kiss for the audience?"

John felt his mouth go dry at the thought. He wanted to say yes. Oh God, did he want to say yes, but he still had a strand of dignity left.

Somewhere.

omewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I just wanted to thank my wonderful beta AmaranthineRedamancy for putting up with my horrible grammatic and syntactical errors. Without her, this story would completely indecipherable and infuriating to read. Please offer your thanks and-for the Whovians- check her out. **

They made their way down the street in silence. Both lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock could feel the subtle shift in his companions demeanor, but chose not to question it. They had work to do, and could not afford to be distracted. Their path finally led them to a nondescript high-rise. John looked over at Sherlock curiously, but said nothing. A short man in a porter's uniform hobbled out, his hat crooked and his smile clearly false.

"Hello gentlemen, is their anything I can help you with?" Sherlock plastered on his most charming smile.

"Why yea, actually. We're in town for the week on Holiday, and we thought we would pop in on an old friend. Is Dorothy Jenkins in?" The doorman smiled glanced between the two of them suspiciously.

"How do you know Miss Jenkins?" John felt Sherlock falter, and picked up the charade.

"I used to go to school wither her. We were good friends, and I thought it'd be nice for her to finally meet the Mister." To punctuate his point John took Sherlock's hand, Another Jolt of electricity rippling between them. The detective smiled nervously, for cover or out of confusion he had no idea. The doorman just huffed and waved them to the door.

"Fifth floor Apartment 13D. I'll ring her and let her know that you two are coming up." Sherlock recovered himself enough to stop the man.

"That won't be necessary. Thank you though." The man simply nodded at them, and turned his attention back to the street. They entered the building together, John having forgotten about taking Sherlock's hand. The detective glanced down at their intertwined fingers. It was a gesture that they had shared dozens of times, yet this was so much more. Sherlock made no move to reclaim his hand, and simply let John hold it until they were on the lift. Nor did he remove it as they walked down the hallway to Apartment 13D. Only when he went to knock on the door did he relinquish his grip on the doctor's hand.

"That was a clever bit you added there. Introducing the mister. I'll have to remember that." John's blush deepened.

"He didn't look too happy about it." Sherlock shrugged, knocking on the door once more.

"Some people just need to reevaluate their parameters for what love can be. Attraction is nearly undefinable." John glanced up at Sherlock with a smirk.

"I thought that you didn't believe in love." The detective gave him one of his patented you-should-no-better looks, before pulling a lock pick from his sleeve. With the deftness of a trained thief, he picked and opened the door. The sight held within equal parts revolting and fascinating. The Walls of the flat were a map. Pictures and clippings pinned to the walls, with an intricate web of string woven between them.

John traced his fingers over them in wonder. The first picture was of him, n his army uniform, pressed and fresh on his day. A little red string trailed from there down to an article written about him. Another over his heroic acts. A picture from his honoring ceremony. A few more grainier pictures of him meandering about. Suddenly a blue lined met his pin, and the picture oh his leaving St. Bart's was right next to Sherlock's. He could see it now, the web of blue that took up a considerably larger portion of wall space. He hadn't realized just how much Sherlock had accomplished.

The detective too, seemed enamored by the display. It was obvious that it had only been complied recently, signaling a sudden obsessive curiosity. Her ability to find these obscure pictures and articles was intriguing, but hardly noteworthy. What fascinated him was the was how intricately she had coded the paths.

John was red, Sherlock blue. What they did together was purple. Green was Lestrade, black was the "Unknown" That Sherlock knew was Mycroft. There was white thread that seemed to stand for any third party help, and yellow thread for whatever "villain" had committed the crime. There was a soft rustling sound, and John turned to face it. Is breath caught in his throat.

"Sherlock.". The detective's eyes never left the wall.

"What?" John was standing stock still, his eyes trained before him.

"You may want to turn around now." The detective groaned and spun.

"Whatever for-oh."


	7. Chapter 7

Pajama clad and trembling, the woman could have easily been mistaken for a terrified child, had it not been for the blade she was brandishing at them. John stepped forward, his hands out before him, military training overriding his initial shock.

"Dorothy? Dorothy Jenkins?" The girl's eyes widened as ohn stepped forward. She shook her headthe knife shaking violently in her hand.

"Dorothy, We aren't here to hurt you. You recognize us? Yea? It's John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes." She shook her head violently, rearing back and dropping the knife. John saw exactly what she was going to do, and lunged for her. She collided into his arms, clawing and kicking and screeching. Her fingers dug into John's face and tore at his jumper, trying desperately to get away. Sherlock leapt into action, slamming and latching the door, before gripping her wrists, pinning them at her sides.

"Miss Jenkins, please. , calm down." She wasn't listening. Her eyes rolled back in her heas, and she went suddenly limp. John caught her fall, and hoisted her up, carrying her over the couch. He checked her vitals. Pulse slowing to normal levels, breathing becoming even. Recovering. He covered her carefully with a blanket, before standing back up.

Sherlock watched John's actions with fascination. The doctor had seemed to see everything before it happened. Her shock, the panic attack. Her attempt at flight. And then, after she had hurt him, he had kept calm and cared for her. The perfect soldier and doctor. Sherlock shook his head, trying dislodge the distracting thoughts, but his eyes came to rest on the fresh claw marks on John's face, and a knot formed in his throat.

"John. You're bleeding." John reached a hand up and prodded his face, the sting of the cuts finally settling in.

"Seems like it. Could you see if she has any peroxide? And search for what you wanted to while your at it. Best to do that while she's out." Sherlock nodded numbly, not used to being ordered around, but not minding either. Sherlock disappeared into the girl's room, while John sauntered back over to the wall. He had gotten a general impression of it, now he had a moment to examine it in earnest. The Sherlock part of the web really was massive. Some of the articles were from decades before, reprinted from the internet. John skimmed over of few of them.

Ten year old Sherlock solving a murder. 14 year old Sherlock stopping a drug lord. 16 year old Sherlock uncovering a ring of human trafficking in London. There was another picture, this one in color, that caught the doctor's eye. An older Sherlock, around twenty or so, was leaning back against a police car. The picture was obviously candid, as the Detective's features were relaxed. He was gazing out over a beach, police lines and officers scattered about the sand. Sherlock seemed so happy in the picture, a small smile on his lips. John unconsciously traced a finger over the picture. Noting that it was a high quality print. Obviously Dorothy had had it made up. He head Sherlock coming out of the girl's room, and quickly snatched the picture from the wall, slipping it quickly into his back pocket. Later, he would question what possessed him to do it, but right now his only thoughts were on the case.

"I found some peroxide as well as a few interesting computer files." John stepped forward to take the bottle from the detective, but the Sherlock stopped him.

"Sit." John sighed, taking a seat in the chair adjacent the couch. Sherlock knelt before him, his jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up. Shaking a few drops of the liquid onto the cloth, he glanced back over at the wall.

"Why was she frightened? It doesn't fit." John raised an eyebrow.

"Doesn't fit what?" The detective pressed the cloth to John's injured cheek, the doctor hissing at the burn.

"Most obsessive fans would be elated to have their idols see their shrine. They would show it off with pride, and then proceed to try and keep us." John chuckled slightly.

"I don't think so Sherlock. This was obviously a personal thing for her." The doctor hooked a thumb at two canvases leaning against the wall.

"She hides it when she has company. Only someone she was intimate with would know about it, and even then that's a maybe. We obviously didn't do any good breaking in here unannounced." Sherlock nodded, looking up at the doctor with yet another twist in his gut. John was noticing things that he hadn't even thought of, this was most peculiar.

"I had not considered that. You're learning." John blushed slightly at the rare praise, his eyes not dareing to look down at the detective. Sherlock ran his fingers gently over the doctor's cheek, checking for any further marks on either side. John leaned into the cool touch absentmindedly. The detective felt his heart flutter, and went to say something, when a moan came from the couch. The two men jumped apart, both with their hearts beating a touch too fast, and their cheeks a touch too red. The figure on the couch sat up, her eyes focusing on the two men. She put her head into her hands with a groan.

"Ju are really here then." She moaned and Sherlock glanced at John. The doctor mouthed the word 'French' to the detective with a hint of surprise.

"Yes, we are here. You gave as quite a welcome too." The woman looked up at them, her dark features paling as her eyes found the marks on John's face.

"Shit." John smiled, trying to reassure her.

"It's my fault. Should have called ahead." The woman let out a weak laugh, and Sherlock felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut. Was John flirting with her? The woman glanced at the wall.

"You have come to arrest me, no?" John shook his head.

"No. We just came to talk. " The woman looked him over skeptically, and then her eyes passed over Sherlock. Despite the warmth of the doctor, the detective was cold and even angry looking. Dorothy shuddered.

"Talk about what." Sherlock perched on the edge of John's chair, arms crossed over his chest.

"About your bugging our flat, spying on us and tapping our phones." John winced at the detectives harsh tone.

"I know nothing of tapping your phones." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the statement, and john leaned forward.

"We were simply here to ask you to stop, and to remove any items that were illegal, instead of getting the police involved." The woman looked at them in turn.

"The wall is mine, yes. But I know nothing of tapping your phone." She gestured around her with her hands. "I did send the listening device, but it was only at Anthony's instruction." Sherlock's ears perked at this.

"Anthony?" The woman nodded.

"Oui. He is a friend of mine from school." John sat up.

"School?" The woman nodded quickly.

"I am in my final year at King's college. Anthony is in my class." Sherlock was really getting peaked now.

"Does this Anthony have a last name?" The woman nodded.

"Morgan." With that Sherlock had his coat on and was out the door. John scrambled up. Pausing for a moment.

"Err, get rid of –" He pointed at the wall "That. If you can't destroy it, send it to us, we'll deal with it. Please, respect our privacy, yea?" She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. The door of her flat slammed, and she was left completely unsure of what had just happened.


	8. Chapter 8

John sprinted through the halls after Sherlock. His shorter legs working furiously to catch up with the detective. The doors were closing as he plowed through them.

. He leaned against the wall of the lift, panting, as Sherlock stared down at his phone.

"Do you ever wait for me? Ever? "

"Anthony Morgan. Age 26. Computer programming student. No available criminal record. No criminal connections. Wait a second-" He scrolled through the man's Facebook, spotting one thing out of place.

"He's friends with Molly's brother." John glanced up. Trying to catch his breath.

"Molly has a brother?" John huffed. He wasn't surprised by the revelation, as much as that Sherlock knew the fact.

"Yes. Which links him to Moriarty." John tilted his head to Sherlock incredulously.

"How does having Molly's brother as a Facebook friend link this random man to Moriarty." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor a the lift doors opened. The doorman was peering in at them suspiciously. Sherlock pocketed his phone and smiled kindly, taking John's hand in has again as they waltzed out of the building.

"You never answered my question." John said after a moment. Sherlock glanced down at the man, and then smiled.

"Molly 'dated' Moriarty for those three days. The time frame was wide enough for Molly's over-protective brother to establish contact with him. Now let's assume that Anthony knew Andrew-" John paused.

"Andrew?" Sherlock nodded.

"Molly's brother. Let's assume that Anthony knew Andrew from University. They would have already been friends. With the 'Mutual Friends' app that Facebook has, odds are Moriarty was paired withthis Anthony at some point. Moriarty saw the potential of a computer programmer at a college, and recruited him. " John shook his head.

"That's a pretty far leap Sherlock." The detective shrugged.

"It fits." They walked in silence for a time, neither one noticing that they were still hand in hand.

"So what's the plan? We bring this Anthony in and interrogate him? We go pay him a personal visit?" Sherlock shook his head.

"By now, Dorothy would have already warned him that we know. If he's guilty of anything more than spying on us, he'll flee. Sherlock jotted something into his phone, and John's pocket vibrated.  
"Sherlock, why are you texting me? I'm right beside you." The detective gave a long suffering sigh.

"I wasn't texting you. I was texting Lestrade." John held up the phone, shaking it from sid to side.

"I've got Lestrade's phone, remember? You sacrificed mine to the evening Traffic." Sherlock's nose pinched slightly. He had forgotten about that.

"Could you call him then, and have them find him?" John smirked, going through the phone and calling the DI's office.

"Lestrade? It's me John." There was a huff on the other end of the phone.

"John. Sherlock stole my phone again didn't he." The doctor chuckled.

"Borrowed it. Mine was, err, destroyed. He was just being nice. I think." He glanced at the detective, who was wearing his own half smirk.

"Sherlock's version of being nice is a lot like criminal misdemeanors." John laughed at that, and Sherlock frowned. Before the doctor could stop him, the detective had snatched the phone from him.

"Lestrade. I need you to bring in one Anthony Morgan. Age 26, height 5'11'' , weight 123, approximately 54 kilograms. Caucasian, white blond hair, green eyes. Student at Kings College. No job. Residence unknown." John gaped at the detective. He could imagine Lestrade on the other end, scribbling furiously as he tried to keep up with the flow of information.

"Could you slow do-" Sherlock ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of John's coat.

"You think that he is connected to the murder." John stated, eyeing a few restaurants along the street. He felt his stomach clench at the thought of food. Sherlock noticed the doctor's gaze and sighed internally. He hadn't really eaten had he.

"Yes. Either as the perpetrator or an accomplice, that much is still unclear." Sherlock eyed a quiet looking café and lead the doctor to it. John was surprised by the detective's action, but said nothing, lest he be denied a meal.

The sturdy blonde waitress lead them to a quiet little booth, the table worn but clean.

"Can I getcha dinks?" She asked, a fake smile plastered on. John smiled up at her.

"Some tea would be good, thanks." She looked at Sherlock expectantly, but the detective ignored her, his face buried in his phone. She tapped her heel impatiently and John coughed.

"He, err, he'll be having tea too, please." He didn't know if the last word was meant for the waitress of for his patience. She scurried off, leaving two menus on the table. John cracked his open and skimmed through the lists of food, unsure of what to get. The waitress came back a few moments later. She set the steaming tea on the table, and then stood back. Her pen and pad at the ready.

"Ready to order?" John was about to ask for more time, when Sherlock spoke.  
"He'll be having You're number 7 with no lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, mushroom, or onions. Light on the mustard, and cheese on the side. Nothing for me, thanks." The waitress glanced between the two of them, and the smiled softly. She tapped the side of her nose and winked knowingly.

"Coming right up hon." The doctor crossed his arms over his chest and glared playfully at Sherlock.

"What did you just order?" The detective glanced up.

"What you wanted?" The question in his voice was faint, but John stil caught it.

"What did I want?" Sherlock smirked.

"The classic burger with chips. Simple, filling." Sherlock shrugged. The doctor shook his head. He had been looking at that particular meal.

"You really are something, you know that?" Sherlock pocketed his phone laced his fingers together in front of him. Head on hands, elbows on the table.

"What sort of something am I?" John felt some color touch his cheeks, and glanced around the room. Up to the side, anywhere but at Sherlock, who was boring holes into him.

"Err, you're Sherlock. Umm. You're a smart something, and err handsome." The doctor quickly sipped his tea. Sherlock smirked quietly. The thought that John thought that he was handsome was strangly pleasant. Another point towards confirming his hypothesis.

"So what are your thoughts on this whole case?" Sherlock mused. The detective shrugged.

"Part of me just wants to chalk it up to a psyco with a dramatic side, but then the little part of me that is you is sitting their shouting that everything is interlaced into a massive web that encompasses every criminal in London." The detective's eyes glittered. Or was that just John's imagination?

"What does that John think of everything that's happened today?" His voice had dropped an octave, the baritone rippling around John.

"I think that this Morgan guy used Miss Jenkins' fascination with us as both a resource and asa cover for his pwn information gathering. He figured that we would stop searching after we found her, and assume that no one else was watching. By keeping tabs on us, he could see where the progress in the case was, and see if he was going to get away with his part of it or if he needed to run. "The detective nodded.

"That's the obvious things. Now, infer. Deduce." John closed his eyes taking a deep breath and focusing. Sherlock wouldn't ask him to do this is he didn't already know the answer, or that John could do it.

"Being the technical wizard that he most likely is, I'd recon that his part in the murders was in that realm. Considering that all of the victims found the cult via email, it's possible that the emails were encrypted with something else, some file or code. Maybe even some subliminal messages or something." His eyes snapped open, and he looked at Sherlock, wide eyed.

"That's how he did it, isn't it? He laced those emails with subliminal messages so that they would attend, and then continued the patterns in different ways until they got to the state that we saw them in." Sherlock nodded, clapping softly.

"Well done doctor Watson. Now, take that into a broader sense with Moriarty." John's chest constricted slightly.

"He was working on subliminal messages for Moriarty. Ones that are strong enough to brainwash 6 bright college kids into forming a cult, and walking to their own deaths. Imagine what Moriarty could do with that." Sherlock nodded. The waitress came back, placing the plate of food between them. John snatched up the burger, taking a large chunk out of it while Sherlock talked.

"Exactly John. That's exactly what I thought. It also would explain the files that I found on Dorothy's computer." John quirked an eyebrow, his mouth too full to speak.

"They were blank. Completely blank, all 6 of them. But then I layered them together, I got a picture of us. The coding in the white scale was a background to different images. Images that her mind saw in rapid succession. While her conscious mind didn't notice them-" John nodded.

"Her subconscious one did. But you have access to your own subconscious mind, don't you. So you just looked back and saw what the rest of us never notice." Sherlock felt the warmth in his stomach again, and smiled at John.

"Exactly. The problem now is, does Moriarty already have this ability, or was Morgan simply testing it on those kids." John nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

"Sherlock, how did those kids die? I mean, there were no visible marks. No signs of violence ore self-harm." The detective's eyes widened slightly, as the truth of what had happened settled over him. A quick text to Molly got the answer that he was dreading.

"How did they die?-SH"

"Brain Aneurism. All of them. –Molly" The doctor saw the shift in Sherlock's features, shock and horror dawning on his own.

"Oh no. He can't do that, can he?" Sherlock nodded.

"He can train people to die."

Paste your document here...


	9. Chapter 9

John hurried through the rest of his dinner, his appetite diminished but the knowledge of how many calories that he needed fueling him to eat. Even Sherlock plucked up a few chips. More than his usual diet allowed. Sherlock paid the bill with a light tip, before he and john stepped into the darkened streets of London. Obviously they had been in the café for longer than they thought.

"What now? Without Morgan there really isn't much we can do." The detective shrugged.

"Want to see if we can beat Lestrade at finding him?" The doctor grinned mischievously.

"Considering that he's got Anderson? Do you really think it's fair?" Sherlock laughed.

"The disadvantage is having you against him. Now come on." They hopped into a cab and drove to where Sherlock thought that Morgan might be. The cyber café was crowded, yet nearly completely silent, save for the whirring of computers and the occasional clinking of glasses on tables. Sherlock spotted a figure hidden in the dimly lit corner of the room, and walked carefully to him. The man was completely still, except for his eyes, which seemed to be moving at thousands of miles a minute. A nod to John confirmed that this was Anthony Morgan, and yes, we should probably catch him. Sherlock sat in the chair adjacent from the man, still completely unnoticed, while John snuck up behind him. After a moment's pause, The detective slammed the laptop lid shut. And the startled man looked up at him in horror. He made a move to run, but John's hand wrapped around his shoulder, firmly holding him in place.

"Anthony Morgan?" The man's eyes flicked around the room quickly, searching for a quick exit. John'es hand squeezed firmly at his flesh.

"Yes, yes, alright. It's me. How did you find me? No, don't answer that. Dorothy. Damn. I should have figured that she was too weak a mind. Cracked so easily. Oh well.´He mumbled on for a bit longer, while John quickly phoned Lestrade.

"We've got him."

"You've got to be kidding me . We've been looking for hours." John winced. Dinner really had been a bit long.

"We've been looking for about ten minutes. Look he's at the cyber café on fifth. Sherlock and I will hold him until you get here."

"Alright. Thanks. Oh, can I have my-" John ended the call, his hands firmly securing the man. The doctor marveled as Sherlock's inquisitive gaze slowly tore the criminal apart. He saw the detective catalogue and question, deducing ever scrap of information in a matter of moments.

Sherlock could feel John's gaze on him. He always could. It was part of the reason that he made such a show about his deductions. When he had finished his examination of Anthony Morgan, he looked up and smirked at the doctor.

"Lestrade is on his way, shall we take our guest outside, or wait in here." John glanced down at the man, and then around at the café. No one had register their presence at all. They were all still completely engulfed in their own worlds. The doctor found the whole scene unnerving.

"Let's go outside. Lestrade should be here in a matter of moments." Sherlock nodded, glancing around the room. He noted that three of the café patrons were reading John's blog, completely ignorant to the fact that yet another story was unfolding literally right beside them. Sherlock nodded, and stood, James' computer in his arms. The man stood as well, towering over John. The doctor simply gripped his arms firmly, trying not to lose his previously intimidating demeanor. .

Three men walked outside. John securing Anthony and Sherlock taking pont. As soon as the door closed behind them, the previously stoic criminal sprung to life. He elbowed John savagely in the ribs, before kicking in the back of his knee, sending the doctor crumpling to the ground. Anthony ran swiftly down the street, while Sherlock bent to help John up.  
"Go!" The doctor shouted, point to the rapidly fading figure bolting away. Sherlock glanced worriedly at the doctor, who was desperately trying to regain his balance. After a few hobbled seconds, he seemed well enough to continue, but the criminal was already out of sight.

"Why didn't you go after him?" John huffed, irritated. He hated losing a perp.

"Because you were down, and that would have required leaving you here, injured." The detective stated this with his usual matter of fact it-should-be-obvious tone, and John balked. Did Sherlock really care about him? One glance at the hurt and concern in the detective's eyes and he knew the truth. He took a deep breath, before grabbing the detective's shoulder.

"Is there any way that we can catch up with him, or figure out where he's going?" Sherlock smirked, grabbing John's hand once more and sprinting off through the corridors of alleyways. He followed his mental map of London, allowing for a head start and possible attempts at changing paths. John simply ran along, trusting the detective to get them where they needed to be. After nearly ten minutes of running, they saw their suspect walking casually down the street. Sherlock slowed their pace, texting Anderson his instructions for Lestrade, before bolting at Anthony.

The man heard the footsteps charging at him, and looked back in shock. He bolted again, this time a bit more frantic than the last. John and Sherlock followed in pursuit. They were both mildly surprised when he leapt up a fire escape climbing swiftly to the rooftops. Sherlock followed seamlessly, his long legs letting him reach the ladder with ease. John shook his head, taking a flying leap and barely gripping the bottom rung in the process. He scrambled up to find Sherlock bent down to pull him the rest of the way.

The doctor smiled, taking the proffered hand and holding it as they sprinted across the rooftops after the criminal. His lead was rapidly decreasing as the two men picked up speed. In a last ditch effort of escape, the man leapt across a particularly wide rooftop, his ankle cracking sickeningly as it collided with the edge of the roof. Sherlock jumped the gap without hesitation, tackling the injured man on the other side.

John stood on the adjacent rooftop, watching as the shadowy figures grappled with each other. He heard the sharp crack of a fist against skin, and then Sherlock's grunt. All apprehension about leaping the distance was gone. He backed up a few paces, took a rung start and lunged across the gap. He rolled up on the other side, only to come face to face with Sherlock, a limp body at his feet.

"You alright?" John huffed, pulling himself to a stand. Sherlock nodded, his eyes evaluating the doctor openly

"Yea." They stood their for a moment, simply staring at each other and panting for breath. Suddenly, something snapped. Before they knew what was happening, they had stepped forward, lips colliding. Both men could feel the electricity coursing through them, filling their senses and setting their bodies alight. Sherlock pressed into the kiss, following his instincts. John responded in kind. His lounge flicking out at Sherlock's bottom lip, gaining him entrance to his mouth. The ball was entirely in John's field, and he held nothing back, his tongue ravished Sherlock's mouth, exploring every available inch.

Sherlock balled his hands in John's jumper, while John's hands tangled in the detectives hair, pulling him down to his level. The sound of approaching sirens pulled them apart.

John was panting, his face flushed and his body humming from the kiss. Kiss. He had finally kissed Sherlock. Or had Sherlock kissed him? He gazed at the detective, taking in the near-black eyes, the rumpled hair, the panted kiss-stained lips. His shirt was rumpled looking, and, it can't be. John observed the slight bulge in his flat mate's trousers with utter shock. Sherlock was aroused, by him! Just by snogging him.

Sherlock watched John watch him. He could see the obvious attraction of the man before him, but was more than a little surprised by the intensity of his own. He glanced down sheepishly, aware that John had become aware of just how attracted he was,

"Sherlock." John intoned, suddenly afraid. What was going on? He had just snogged Sherlock! On a case! Case. His eyes fell to the body on the ground.

"Is he dead?" Sherlock focused back on the scene at hand. He had forgotten about the case!

"I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I just knocked him unconscious." At that moment the detective's phone started to ring.

"We are on the roof. Morgan is unconscious. And injured." He handed the phone to John, who knelt beside the man and quickly examined him.

"Broken ankle, his fault. Cracked jaw. Also his fault, as Sherlock was provoked." There was a huff across the line.

"Alright. We're on our way up now." John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes resting on the bulge in the detectives trousers once more. He hung up the phone, looking around quickly.

"Sherlock! Y-you need to cover up." Sherlock looked down again, and blushed. His usual grave was gone as he fumbled with fastening his coat.

Suddenly there was the sound of splintering wood, and Lestrade came barging forward, Donovan and two other officers right behind him.

"Bloody hell you killed our suspect!" Donovan screeched upon seeing the man on the ground.

"He isn't dead." Sherlock stated flatly. As if on cue the man groaned, his head lolling around.

"See? Clearly not dead. Now if you"ll excuse me." The detective made his way to the door, when Lestrade gripped his arm.

"Hold on moment. Just what did this guy do? What's going on? Why are you in such a hurry to leave." Sherlock glanced at John. And then turned his attention back to Lestrade. He huffed, launching into a torrent of words,

"Anthony Morgan is your murderer. He programed software that controls a person's decisions and influence their actions through subliminal codes. You'll find that all of your victims died of a brain aneurism. He created a code that overrides a person's self-preservation instinct. All of the evidence you need is on his laptop." Lestrade held out his hand. Clearly instructing the detective t hand it over. He swallowed, It was tucking in the inside pocket of his coat, John caught on to the predicament and went scarlet with embarrassment for his friend.  
" Hand it over Sherlock." The detective sighed, glancing that Donovan and the other officers were busying themselves with Morgan. He quickly unfastened his coat and wrestled the laptop out of the pocket. Lestrade's eyes nearly instantly found the issue at hand and he glanced away quickly. His cheeks red.

"Err, Sherlock. You. Um, you have an issue there." Sherlock rolled his eyes, chucking the laptop ant the DI and quickly fastening his coat.

"Yes, I do. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to go home now so that John can take care of it." Both men looked at the detective as if he had gone mad. John feeling himself react to the comment, and Lestrade simply groaning internally.

"Go. Just go." Lestrade huffed, exasperated. He pointed at the door, and Sherlock strode out purposefully. John glanced back.

"Oh, and here." He chucked the phone at the DI, before following Sherlock off the roof.

Donovan walked over to the DI a few moments later.

"Why did freak want to leave in such a hurry?" Lestrade worked his mouth for a bit, trying to find the words.

"He was, err, injured fighting with Morgan. Got hurt." Donovan looked unconvinced, but they way the DI was glaring brooked no arguments.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: This chapter does contain Smut. You've been warned.**

Sherlock fairly flew down the stairs and onto the street, John tumbling after him. The detective nearly dragged the doctor into the back seat of a cab. Like a beast on his prey, Sherlock was on him. His hands groped and clawed at the thoroughly shocked doctor. It took two minutes too long for John to react. He pushed the man off of him with a huff.

"Sherlock."

The doctor's voice remained calm, despite his raging emotions. The detective ignored him, crashing his lips against John's once more. He bit the doctor's lower lip, and John chocked back a moan.

How did Sherlock know how to do that? With a grunt the doctor shifted away from the detective, holding him at arm's length.

"Sherlock. We need to talk about this."

The detective rolled his eyes and threw his hands out to the side in frustration.

"Why, John? Why do we have to talk about this? Talk is boring! But this-"

He gestured between them.

"This is exciting. Invigorating. I can feel the adrenaline John!"

The doctor sighed, leaning his head back with a groan.

"You're on an adrenaline high from the case. You've now found a new way to extend it. That's all this is."

The words were firm, but the truth in them stung the doctor. He hated the idea that Sherlock was just using him to stave of his encroaching boredom. As well as the thought that all of this so far had just been a physical response that means nothing.

Sherlock jolted back a bit, sitting up stalk strait in his seat and staring forward. His eyes glimmered in the dark cab. John doesn't want him. He miscalculated. He was wrong, this was all wrong. He put a trembling hand to his lips, averting his gaze from the doctor's.

John saw Sherlock's reaction, and silently cursed himself.

"Sherlock please, just, hear me out. It isn't that I don't want this."

The detective glanced over at him cautiously.

"It's just, you're not thinking about this. It's me. John Hamish Watson, your flat mate. I'm not a genius, or gorgeous. It's just me, normal, average me. And you're Sherlock Bloody Holmes."

The doctor's gut was twisting now. He felt horrible for breaking whatever spell that had possessed the detective, but he knew that if he didn't, the guilt of it all would be unbearable.

Sherlock could have screamed. Did his blogger really not think him capable of feeling for him?

"You complete and utter idiot."

Sherlock stated flatly. The doctor sighed. Back to normal then.

"Did you honestly believe for one second-"

Oh god, this was going to hurt.

"That you're not what I wanted? Do you really believe that I would just snap and snog you after a case just because I felt like it? Really John you've had some absolutely stupid thoughts but really."

The doctor blinked, completely and utterly lost. The cab pulled to an abrupt stop, with the driver twisting in his seat.

"221B Baker Street."

Sherlock passed the man a wad of bills and bustled out of the car, John lagging slowly behind him. Sherlock was still ranting as he pushed open the door to the house and stomped up the stairs.

"I thought you of all people would have picked up on it by now. It's as obvious as the nose on Mycroft's face. For months now-as I've come to notice- I've been growing increasingly attached to you. At first I simply wrote it all off. I tried to ignore it."

The detective forced his key angrily into the lock and wrenched the door open.

John simply stood in the doorway, confused, and more than a little worried. What was going on with Sherlock?

"But I couldn't ignore it now could I? Not when you go off doing bloody brilliant things like accurately deducing a crime scene completely on your own. Or handling a crazed stalker fan far better than I ever could have."

Sherlock was pacing now, simultaneously tugging at his scarf.

"Really how could I even possibly attempt to ignore you when you go and make it so difficult. And attraction, well, attraction is a new concept. I've studied it before, observed it, but I've never really been one to FEEL it."

Sherlock was unfastening his coat now, still pacing, still ranting.

John couldn't help but watch his graceful fingers work at every fastening.

"Physical attraction was a knew thing. I've felt it before, as a teen, but I always ignored it. With you that was bloody impossible, but embraceable. I could be physical, once I learned the ropes. That really doesn't bother me. The problem lyes in the fact that with the physical attachment comes emotional attachment. Sentiment. I can't separate them, I can't remove one from the other. With you comes my sentimental attachment to you."

Sherlock stopped suddenly, turning to face the flustered doctor square on. His face was peering strait down at him, his ever changing eyes boring into brown ones.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Sentiment is weakness, John."

John worked his jaw, trying to bite back the swell of rage that those words summoned. Sherlock had just confessed his feelings for John, or at least that fact that they exist. And then gone and made sure John knew that the detective didn't want them.

"Do you really believe that Sherlock? Do you honestly think that caring for someone makes you weak?"

The doctor couldn't help the strain of anger that was seeping into his voice.

"Do you really think that? Because I care a lot about you. I've sacrificed a lot for you Sherlock. I've done a hell of a lot of things for you. Does that make me weak? When I shot that damn cabbie, or fought that Chinese assassin, was it because I was weak? All of the criminals I've chased all of the people I've fought or apologized to for you. You think me weak for it?"

John shook his head, hurt and angry.

Sherlock was frozen. He had made a mistake. A terrible horrible mistake. John was angry with him, and more than that he was hurt. Those four words weren't meant to leave his mouth. They comprised his own internal rule, one that even as he said it he refuted immediately in his heart.

"John. I, I did not mean for that to sound like it did. I didn't, you aren't-"

He growled, tangling his fingers in his hair. How to say it?

"You are not weak. By no stretch of the imagination are you weak. You are the strongest person I have ever met."

He could see that the doctor was still wounded, that he still hadn't managed to fix things.

"That's why you're the exception to the rule. You are my weakness, but you are by no means weak."

It was the doctor's turn to freeze. He stood still, one hand still gripping the door frame tightly, the other in front of him, finger pointed.

"Hold on a moment. What exactly, are you getting at? Are you wanting us to, I don't know, be this-"

He waved between them.

"Or are you saying no to it? Because I'm getting mixed vibes here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed John's collar, pulling him into a searing kiss with the hopes of instilling every ounce of passion that he could into the gesture. They pulled apart, both gasping for breath. Sherlock raised a hand.

"I'm saying that you are my weakness, but you are also my strength. Because where I flounder, you flourish. I'm saying that even though I've never actually done any of this before, I want nothing more than to do it with you. I'm saying that this is all very hard for me, but that I'm taking the challenge."

He took a deep breath, trying to muster the courage to say the three words that his heart was screaming, but was cut short by a firm pair of lips on his, rough hands surrounding his face. He heard a gasp of what was most likely Mrs. Hudson, and the sound of a door being kicked shut.

John backed him slowly to the couch, his hands stroking soft circles on the detective's cheeks. Half of him wanted to attack the man, take him with as much savage passion as they had shared on the roof and in the cab, but the other half knew that that wouldn't be right. Sherlock was new to this, it wouldn't do to ravage him right off the bat. So he went slow, steady, gentle. Soft caresses and soft kisses on soft lips.

Sherlock was worried. He knew the mechanics of their current actions, he knew how it worked in theory, but he lacked experience. What he had done in the cab had been pure instinct. Adrenaline controlling his actions. Now he was afraid. Afraid of messing up, afraid of John leaving him because he isn't good enough.

As if sensing the detective's shift in mood, John's already slow pace came to a halt. His hands cradled the detective's face in his hands as he pulled back looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

"Sherlock, I don't want to do anything that you don't. If you want me to stop, or slow down, tell me, please."

The detective 's sideways smirk answered the doctor.

"I trust you."

John's heart fluttered in his chest, almost painfully. In any other situation that would have made him smile, but now, now he knew exactly what that meant. Exactly what underlined those three words. Sherlock was giving the doctor explicit permission to do as he liked. He was determined to make it count.

He tugged Sherlock off the couch, wrapping his arm around the man and pulling him to the bedroom.

Sherlock leaned against the door, his eyes focused intently on the doctor's.

"Are YOU ok with this John?"

The doctor looked slightly startled, his ears reddening slightly. He pressed his hands around the taller man's neck and pulled him down for another kiss.

Sherlock responded eagerly, his tongue tracing lightly around the doctor's teeth.

"Answered that then." John chuckled softly, his fingers toying with Sherlock's collar.

Sherlock caught on to John's hesitation, and rolled his eyes. Without further preamble he burrowed his fingers under John's jumper and shirt, pulling them off in one swift motion.

The sudden loss of clothing seemed to jolt the doctor from his apprehension. He moved swiftly forward. Fingers moving languorously over the detective's chest.

Sherlock growled in frustration.

"Do you have to be so bloody slow?"

John laughed out-right. With a flick of his wrist he unfastened Sherlock's belt, thrusting his hand in unceremoniously. Sherlock gasped in shock and pleasure.

"I had planned on dragging this out, but since you're so eager."

He wormed his fingers under the silk of Sherlock's boxers, his own breath hitching when they reached their prize.

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from moaning, the whole of the situation so unfamiliar, anything he could do to control it was needed. That gave him an idea.

He pressed himself flush with John. Stooping himself so his lips attached firmly to John's. In one swift motion he hooked arm around the doctor's waist, and a leg behind his calf.

Before John could register what was happening, Sherlock had flipped the doctor onto the bed, facedown.

John grunted as he impacted he matress, dazed by the sudden turn of events. He attempted to flip himself over so that he could face the detective, but was suddenly pinned down by a heavy weight resting against him. He felt the soft cotton of Sherlock's shirt, rub against his back, the buttons scraping his skin. The contact made him moan.

Sherlock laughed

"John, this is a fascinating view."

He tenderly ran his fingers over the small scar on the older man's shoulder, and was suddenly possessed by the need to see the whole of it. He stood, flipping John over and looking him directly in the eye.

John was surprised by the detective's forcefulness. He hisses slightly as the younger man's fingers grazed over his scar. Sherlock stopped, pulling his hand back

"Did that hurt?"

The tone of his voice revealed worry, and fear. Not the disgust or horror that so many of his female counterparts had expressed when faced with the scar.

"No, it's just that, well, it's quite, err, sensitive."

Sherlock's smirked returned. He leaned in and took John's mouth with his and then trailed a wet stripe down his chin. His fingers moved quickly to divest him of his shirt, the too tight buttons only too happy to oblige.

Kisses ran down John's neck, forcing the man to shiver. A particularly violent shudder when those lips brushed the crook of his neck led to Sherlock sucking on the skin there lightly. John groaned, and the pressure increased. The detective nibbled and sucked at the spot, eliciting many a gravely moan from his blogger. He noticed a prominent bruise beginning to form, and his already aroused form shivered pleasantly.

He had just marked John. The world would know that he belonged to Sherlock Holmes. The detective smirked inwardly. A few more of those wouldn't hurt.

John was quickly loosing any form of rational and coherent thought. For someone who had no idea what he was doing, Sherlock was amazing. And in control. He had always fantasized everything the other way around. Him on top of Sherlock. Him controlling and pleasing Sherlock. Now, though, he wouldn't change a thing.

The detective found himself once again drawn to the patch of soft white tissue that bloomed from John's shoulder. His lips brushed against it, a soft kiss finding its way to the very center. John's wanton moan shook Sherlock viciously.

Sensitive indeed. He laved his tongue over the skin, hot, wet, perfect. John shouted breathlessly.

"Sherlock!"

The detective pulled up on his elbows, and grinned at him.

John couldn't take it. That little gesture had brought him way too close way too fast. He pulled a hand up to Sherlock's chest and tweaked a nipple, rolling the hardened nub between his fingers.

"Jesus, John."

Sherlock gasped, his hips bucking into John's thigh.

The doctor grinned, pushing forward and locking his lips with Sherlock's, his finger's working mercilessly on the detective's nipple. Every little touch brought a groan from the detective, and the doctor used this distraction to his advantage, flipping them around.

As his back hit the mattress ,Sherlock's mind registered that he had lost his control, and he didn't mind in the slightest. Especially with what John was doing to his lips with his teeth.

John pulled back, his lips trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down the detective's chest. He pushed to lick each nipple in turn, and then again to dip his tongue into the other man's navel.

Sherlock tried desperately to control him self, but everything John did was making his hips back and his mind reel. He couldn't focus, couldn't think. Everything was clouding over with pleasure.

With Sherlock bucking his hips against his stomach, John decided it was time to move things forward.

He scooted back,dragging Sherlock's trousers and boxers with him, relishing the way Sherlock's skin was melting over with chill bumps.

He kissed up the younger man's legs, resting to suck a love bites of his own on Sherlock's inner thigh. His hands began rubbing circles into the younger man's hips with his thumbs. He moved, huffing hot breaths over the man's shaft.

"John."

Sherlock whispered his mind seemed only to consist of that word, over and over and over again.

John Was alight with pleasure. To see Sherlock like this. Hard, lips parted, skin flushed, eyes shocked open, pupils blown. And all the while chanting John's name with each breath. It was enough to get him over any apprehension over what came next.

He took Sherlock's head into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue over the slit. Sherlock attempted to buck into the searing heat of John's mouth, but the once soothing hands had firmed, holding him down to the mattress.

He whimpered and moaned when that mouth was removed, and that tongue instead pressed against the vein at the underside of his cock. His fingers curled into John's hair as he once again closed around him, deeper this time,taking him partially in. One of the hands left his hip and found it's way to his base

John could already tell that Sherlock wouldn't last long. Truth be told, neither would he. The way that Sherlock was moaning and writhing was driving him to the brink, and he had yet to even release himself from his own jeans. He smiled, as much as he could with his mouth so full, at the wonder that is Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was shaking. He was so close to the edge that he could feel one foot in the air. He had never experienced such pure pleasure. With what was left of his mind, he managed a warning to his...partner? Lover? Later.

"J-John."

The doctor glanced up, his, eyes locking onto Sherlock's. With a final flick of his wrist, he sent his best friend over the edge.

Sherlock saw stars. Colors he could never fathom danced behind his eyes, he remembers shouting something, and John's mouth on his, a peculiar taste on his lips.

John watched the oh so in control Sherlock Holmes fall apart, and loved the that it was all for him.

He had done this.

He has reduced this great mind to a panting, shaking, mess.

The only problem was that he was still desperately hard. It didn't help matters that Sherlock had shouted those three forbidden words when he came. John stood, peeling himself out of his jeans, hissing as the cold air hit him.

Sherlock came around slowly, his first foray into the pleasures of the flesh truly sending him around the bend. The first thing he saw was John standing, and his jeans still on. He panicked.

John was leaving?

After all that?

He was just going to leave him in bed, limp and out of his mind?

Had he done something wrong?

He made to sit up, to go to John and apologize, when those jeans slide down John's well toned thighs, followed by his pants.

John turned around, and Sherlock's jaw fell slightly slack.

John was, err, well endowed. For such a small man, he was anything but. The thing that troubled the detective was that his doctor was still hard. Very hard.

John caught Sherlock staring at him, and blushed.

"Give me a minute, I'll be back in a bit."

He made for the bathroom, but was stopped when Sherlock's slender fingers brushed his hip.

"No, come here. I'll take care of you."

To emphasize his point he scooted to the other side of the bed, beckoning John to lay beside him.

The doctor nodded, sliding in and blushing further under Sherlock's interest gaze.. One slender hand wrapped around his cheek, and drew him into a languid kiss, while the other wrapped firmly around John's cock.

John gasped into the kiss, the relief of touch overwhelming.

Sherlock stroked him slowly, his bony fingers soft in places and calloused in others. The difference in texture was exhilarating.

It took exactly seven strokes before John came.

Hard.

He had never had such a strong orgasm in his entire life, and was vaguely away of trying to shout, but the words being quickly swallowed by Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock watched John come, with equal part fascination and jealousy

. The fascination was of how completely John had trusted him, to let him witness his utter destruction.

The jealousy was of the women that John had been with, and will be with in the future.

He had no doubts that John would leave him in the future. It was only a matter of time before he truly mucked things up and chased this man away.

He felt a warm pair of arms wrap around him. John's eyes were still closed, but and soft smile played at his lips. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's scowl, and instantly released him, scooting back and attempting to sit up.

"Shit, sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Sorry?

"For what?"

The detective snapped, hurt.

Was John apologizing for the blow job?

Or for Sherlock getting him off, or all of this?

"I should have figured. What with you being you."

He shook his head, snatching his shirt from the floor and cleaning himself off.

" What about me being me? What are you going on about?"

John stopped, and locked eyes with Sherlock.

"I was, talking about the...cuddling."

He said softly,then snapped.

"What did you think I was talking about?"

Sherlock glanced away, and John gave a silent oh.

"I wasn't apologizing for-"

He waved between them, reminiscent of his earlier gesture.

"This. When I saw how pissed you looked, i figured that it was over me trying to cuddle."

It was Sherlock's turn to feel out of sorts.

"Alright then. Good. Because that was nothing to apologize for."

John grinned once more. It split his face from ear to ear, and made the detective's stomach knot pleasantly.

"You're not so bad yourself."

The doctor yawned, laying back down and stretching out on the bed.

"So what we're you scowling about anyway? Are you really that adverse to a cuddle?"

The detective shook his head. To prove his point, he tucked himself around John, legs intertwined, his head beneath John's chin.

"Come now, be honest. You won't bother me."

Sherlock sighed.

"I got to thinking about the after. You know, when you leave. I was jealous-" John laughed. It resonated through his chest and shook Sherlock.

"You ignorant git. I am not leaving you. Especially not now!"

Sherlock hurmphed.

"Why not now?"

"Because, I, well you-we...You said."

John huffed.

"If I get my way, I will never leave your side. I often don't understand the what goes on in your head. I get fed up with body parts in the kitchen,for experiments in the bathtub. You are arrogant, condescending, rude, and socially inept."

Sherlock winced. John had often pointed these things out to him, but never like this.

"You are also brilliant in near every manner if the word. You are intelligent, talented, caring in your own way. You are loyal, my god are you beautiful."

He kissed the top of Sherlock's hair.

" and so long as you will let me stay,then I have no intention of leaving."

Sherlock was shocked. He had no idea that John felt that deeply. Or that he would dare make a claim like that.

"What brought that thought on then?"

Sherlock bit his lip, burying his head further into the soft curls on John's chest. His reason seemed so stupid and insulting that he regretted ever thinking of it.

"Err, well, it's of no consequence really."

John pulled back, catching the detective's eye.

"Sherlock." He warned, and the man pouted.

"I figured that you would leave me when this-"

He ran his hand between them.

"wasn't enough. I am not a woman John. I doubt you'll be satisfied in this arena."

John was actually stunned into silence. A few tense moments passed before he smiled, and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"You really are an idiot. "

John took Sherlock's hand in his, stroking his fingers.

"I have been with, well, my fair share of women, I won't lie. But none of them, not a one, has made me come, so hard, or so quickly. and you barely touched me. I mean it. If that is what me blowing you does to me, I can't imagine how other things would feel. " He blushed.

"If, that is, you were amicable to other things later on." It was Sherlock's turn to laugh.

"Of course I'm amicable! I have more than just my fingers John." The doctor grinned.

"But what fingers! I've never dated a violinist before. I am definitely glad I made that choice. Talented things, your fingers."

Sherlock blushed. He wasn't used to being referred to as a violinist. Freak, consulting detective, genius, sociopath. These were his titles. But his more artistic talents often went ignored.

"Maybe I'll play something with them later."

The innuendo was palpable, and John chuckled deeply.

"But, now, John, I am hungry."


	11. Chapter 11

John laughed, and stifled a yawn.

"I guess a bit of food won't hurt." He squeezed Sherlock lightly, before rolling off the bed.

Sherlock smirked and stretched, hopping down and snatching John's jeans before the doctor could get to them.

"Sherlock, I know that you have no issue with running about the flat starkers. I, however, prefer to cover up. Should too, in case Lestrade comes barging in."

The detective paused. John did have point, but then again seeing him running around nude would be very good.

"No. If you choose to cover up, then go grab my blue dressing gown from its hook."

John rolled his eyes, but marched into the bathroom anyway. The sight that met him in the mirror sent blood pumping to his cheeks.

He was flushed, his hair spiked up from Sherlock's fingers. His lips were red and swollen, his eyes scarily dark.

He caught sight of the massive red and purple bruise forming across most of his neck and smiled. Yes it would be impossible to cover, but Sherlock had done that. It was evidence that what had happened had actually happened. So was the drying mess on his stomach and thighs.

He sighed, wetting a flannel and wiping himself off. It wouldn't do to run around like that. He ran a comb through his hair and snatched the over sized dressing gown from the hook.

Sherlock watched John's figure retreat to the bathroom and involuntarily squeezed the jeans in his hands. He felt a bit of resistance from the back pocket, and frowned. Picture, 3x5 High quality print. He pulled it out, utterly surprised to see that particular picture.

How on earth had John come into possession of it?

The crazy woman. Jenkins. It had been on her wall. John. must have snatched it when Sherlock wasn't looking. The detective smiled.

"You never cease to surprise me."

John stepped out then, wrapped in Sherlock's over sized dressing gown. The blue silk stretched nearly to his ankles, the sleeve a good ways past his hands. He had it tied tightly around his waist, but it still slid stubbornly off of his shoulders.

Sherlock licked his lips, the sight everything that he had envisioned it to be.

" Food." The doctor said, rubbing his hands together.

Sherlock shook himself and grinned, snatching a pair of boxers from the drawer. He quickly hid the photo there.

They meandered into the kitchen, neither one speaking, just enjoying each other's presence. John started the kettle and stole glances at Sherlock, who was grimacing at the contents of the fridge.

"There is nothing edible in here."

John croaked back a laugh.

"You no see how I feel nearly every morning."

Sherlock groaned.

"It's nearly 2am, so no takeout, and Mrs. Hudson will probably be asleep."

John paused and then snapped his fingers.

"Got it."

The doctor fell to his knees and crawled into one of the bottom cabinets. He let out a soft cry of triumph when he found what he was looking for.

Sherlock watch the proceedings with rapt attention there was something significant about what John was doing. Something important.

The doctor finally stood, a package of Pims in one hand.

Sherlock nearly gasped. John was offering to give up his favorite treat just because he was hungry. It may as well have been a declaration of love.

"Here we are then."

"John, I can't, those are you favorite."

The doctor held up a hand to stop him.

"I can always buy more. Go ahead and sit down."

Sherlock nodded, and retreated, the tubular package grasped in his hands as if it were made of glass.

John made up the two mugs of tea, thankful that Mrs. Hudson had managed a carton of milk for their flat.

Sherlock was on one side of the couch, the biscuits in his hands, his head down, and a clear open seat beside him.

John took the seat, and frowned worriedly at the younger man.

"Sherlock are you alright?"

The detective laughed harshly.

"of course I'm alright John."

He snapped, sitting upright.

" Then why do you look like I just pissed on one of your experiments?"

Sherlock shook his head, and held up the biscuits.

"You love me."

John turned blood red, his ears burning and his stomach twisting painfully. Sherlock sounded so defeated, so pained by those three words.

"Yes, I do. But Sherlock, I don't expect for you to feel the same. I mean, aside from what you said earlier, I know that somewhere in that head of yours you have feelings for me and-" Sherlock put up a hand to stop him.

"What do you mean by what I said earlier?"

The doctor's blush deepened further.

"Well, I mean, you probably don't remember. Throws of passion and all that." Sherlock was thoroughly intrigued-and mad-now.

"What. Did. I. Say." He spat. John coughed

"when you, err, when you ,came, you shouted out that you loved me."

All the color drained from the detective's face. He stood rushing to his room And locking the door, leaving John alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Authors Note: Two things. One, I am really sorry for the delay in posting. No excuses, totally my fault. Two. I often write things phonetically, As is demonstrated with sleepy Sherlock here. So if a word looks completely off, sound it out. **

Sherlock paced his room frantically, his mind in overdrive.

How had he done that?

Why had he done that?

The last thing that he had wanted was to make such a blatant admission in such a crude manner.

John loved him. He had proved it, he had said it. Yet he thought Sherlock didn't. Couldn't.

In hindsight running from the room when confronted with the knowledge that you unwittingly professed your feelings may not have been the best way to convince a person that the sentiment was real.

He came to a halt beside his bed.

Or is it their bed?

The stained and rumpled sheets held the evidence of the events of the night.

He tore them off of the bed with a grunt.

John sat in the living room in silence. He knew that this was all very new, and moving rather fast. They had gone from friends to lovers in a night, though the steps leading to it had been a long time in the making.

The sound of a grunt brought John's attention back to his flatmate. He rose from his chair, pading gently to Sherlock's door. A soft rap of his knuckles received a thump from the other side.

"Sherlock."

Behind the door, the detective froze, the bundle of cloth in his hands falling to the ground.

"Sherlock, I'm going to bed now."

The doctor carded his fingers through his hair gently.

"If you fell, err, tired, or like it, whatever, you can join me. You know, my door is open and all that."

Sherlock felt himself step forward, and he heard the thump of John's head hitting the door.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

Those words. Those two simple, normal words were what shifted things. Sherlock felt all the frazzled ends and ragged edges in his mind click together and smooth out.

He did love John, that much was apparent.

He loved him, and, much as he disliked it, he had said as much.

John had accepted that as a throws of passion exclamation, even though it wasn't.

It was true.

John had made a point to admit that he loved Sherlock back, and was ok with him not verbally reciprocation the sentiment.

Even after Sherlock stomped out and slammed the door on him.

After he had attempted to erase the reminders of the last several hours.

John had invited him into his bed, accepted him and loved him anyway.

The decision was made then.

Sherlock would go to his doctor.

John walked quietly away from the door.

He made it halfway up the steps before he heard the sound of footsteps from Sherlock's room.

His hand twisted his own doorknob before he heard the creak of Sherlock's door opening.

A quiet "goodnight John" floated up to him as he settled into his own bed, and as sleep settled over him, a pair of warm arms wrapped around his middle and a cold nose tucked into his hair.

Morning greeted John with a heavy weight sprawled over him. He was face down, his arms curled around his pillow,face turned to the side.

Sherlock was practically sleeping on top of him. Actually sleeping. The soft snoring came out in puffs of breath against his hair.

The detective's legs were entwined with John's, his spindly arms folded around the doctor. John took a deep breath, trying desperately To fight his body. A few moments of cuddling were well worth the painful press of his bladder and the grimy sensation on his skin. John lasted a total of three minutes before his body betrayed him.

He attempted to wriggle out from underneath the detective,. Resulting in an evermore restrictive grasp and a knee pressed firmly against his groin.

"Sherlock." He groaned.

Sherlock mumbled back at him, his voice gravely from sleep.

"Mmhf, Shumph,Jawn."

The doctor stifled a laugh.

"At least loosen up so I can get up."

Sherlock nuzzled his head further into John's hair.

"No. Shtauy."

John sighed.

"As much as I love being smothered to death by my gangly limbed flatmate, I need to take a piss."

The detective snorted.

"Unless you really want me to piss in my bed, you need to let me up."

He felt Sherlock shrug.

"Sheets can be changed." John rolled his eyes, giving a disgusted huff.

"Alright, line crossed. I'm up."

The doctor pushed himself up on his arms and shouldered the detective off of him. He rose from the bed, practically running into the bathroom.

Sherlock groaned. He felt so cold without the consistent heat of his blogger beneath him.

The fact that he had actually slept through the night was nearly a miracle. He couldn't decide to blame the phenomenon on John's presence or, whatever then he'll last night hqd been.

And thought struck him then, vicious and sharp.

"John?"

He bellowed, earning a grunt from the bathroom.

"What did we do last night?"


	13. Chapter 13

The sound of something falling and clattering to the floor, followed by a stream of expletives and the wrenching open of the bathroom door answered the detective.

John's incredulous expression greeted him.

"Please tell me you're joking."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"I know what we did last night. Obviously we engaged in a form of sexual intercourse."

John visibly relaxed.

"Aside from that, I managed to utter a -albeit unwelcome, but still entirely true- confession of sentiment. And you managed the same."

John stood there, mouth gaping open.

Did he just say true?

Did Sherlock actually admit to loving him?

" What I want to know is what happened!"

Sherlock threw his hands into the air.

" Between us. Something shifted. We are no longer friends, not on a completely platonic level anyway."

He took a deep breath.

"I think what I need to ask-what are we?"

That was it. The right question.

John smirked.

"Whatever you want us to be."

The detective frowned.

Okay, so obviously not the right answer then.

"Look, be it lovers, boyfriends, partners, it's just a label. We are just John and Sherlock, two men in love-"

He watched as Sherlock's eyes brightened. He had been right on that then.

"and anything else is icing."

Sherlock nodded, rolling off the bed and towards the doctor.

"So when we introduce ourselves, we are simple Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? "

John smiled, gripping Sherlock's shoulder.

"Unless 'boyfriends' sounds more appealing to you."

The detective rolled his eyes and scrunched his nose.

"Definitely not. Sounds too juvenile, too temporary. I'll think of something."

It was John's turn to roll his eyes.

"I'm sure you will. Now, I need a shower."

He glanced at Sherlock, who was grinning madly.

"You aren't going to ask me to join you?"

John spluttered.

He took in the way that Sherlock was leaning into him, how his dark eyes glinted with mischief.

"Does that idea bother you, John?" The doctor shook his head.

"Uhh, nope, no it's not that. More of, well-"

Sherlock saw signs all over John.

Steady hands. Feels under pressure.

Eyes darting about the room, refusing to look at .

Nibbling his lip. Guilty.

Guilty?

Those eyes settled on Sherlock's hair for a fraction of a second.

"Oh."

John scrunched his nose.

"Oh?"

"You DO want to take a shower, me included."

John nodded once more. He feared that the motion. Was become a habit.

"But for an entirely different reason than what I had in mind."

He blushed.

"Not entirely different."

Sherlock grinned, pushing the doctor into the bathroom and following suit.

"Sherlock?"

The detective simply shook his head, peeling out of his boxers. It took him far more than a minute to realize that his blogger was already naked.

"Where are your pants?"

John laughed, pointing at the silky blue cloth hanging on the door.

"You told me that I could only wear that, and I couldn't very well sleep in it."

Sherlock was taken aback, his aggressive approach destroyed by a wave of affection.

"I'm amazed you didn't notice earlier."

The doctor shook his head, and folded his arms.

"Hell, you slept on top of me, and you in those boxers."

The detective shrugged, taking on a blush of his own.

"I wasn't exactly focused on that particular fact." John laughed again.

He reached up and ran his hand over the detective's cheeks, bringing that head down for a kiss.

Sherlock pressed into the kiss, languid and loving caresses finding eachother's skin.

Pressed flush together, they backed to the shower, until John felt the cold chill of the glass pressed against his skin.

He shivered, and broke away.

"It's a bit cool to be standing here in the buff."

Sherlock nodded, nuzzling his nose into John's neck, while reaching over and twisting the shower on.

John moaned as Sherlock's lips found their mark from the night before. The pressure was painful, yet exciting at the same time.

"Shower."

He breathed, and found himself tugged into the warm stream of water.

Sherlock's lips once again found John's. The kiss was slow, more exploratory than sensual.

John's fingers tangled In Sherlock's still-too-dry hair, and he pulled away.

"Umm, Sherlock?."

The detective rolled his eyes, grabbing the shampoo bottle and sliding it into John's palm.

"John, would you get on with it? I know how much you've been craving this."

The doctor blushed scarlet, but nodded anyway, pouring the shampoo into his palms and leaning up for another kiss. His fingers massaged the cream into Sherlock's curls, gently tugging out tangles answer massaging the detective's scalp. The whole process had Sherlock moaning into John's lips.

The detective pulled back slightly, his forehead resting on John's.

"I never knew how nice this could feel."

The doctor chuckled.

"Surely you've had your hair washed before."

Sherlock wrapped his wandering hands loosely around John's middle.

"Yes, but this is different."

John quirked an eyebrow.

"How so?"

The detective huffed a laugh.

"Well, for starters, none of my barbers have ever been completely naked and pressed against me. Nor have any of them ever kissed me while they washed my hair. Come to think of it, none of them have ever gotten closer than their hands to my curls."

John smirked, a hand wandering down Sherlock's chest to the bed of dark curls at his cock.

"Not a very reassuring statement."

The detective's breath hitched.

"I can assure you that none of them have managed those curls." John chuckled again, his hand slipping down to take Sherlock's semi-hard cock into his hand.

Sherlock jerked, the sudden touch sending a wave of blood to his crotch.

"You do realize that these curls of yours should be outlawed. Just like your fucking cheekbones."

The detective shivered, his own hand quickly finding John's shaft.

"Wh-Why's that?"

"Too damn -Shit Sherlock-attractive. I mean really, a man -Damn your fingers- can't think with you around. Gees. You're distracting."

Sherlock snorted in acknowledgment, his hand making quick work of the doctor.

"You're no better. With your army man attitude, and your the way you are, with- whither everything. I can't get you out of my head. Believe me, I've tried."

John rolled his eyes, running his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock.

The detective's knees wavered

"Christ. John. Do that again."

The doctor obliged, and wasrewarded with a few crippling twists of Sherlock's hand.

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm not going to last much longer if you keep that up."

The detective grunted, quickening his pace anyway.

"Neither am I."

John removed the hand that had been left in Sherlock's hair and brought it to the man's balls. He fondled them while simultaneously speeding his strokes. Sherlock's moans matched his as the sped each other to climax.

"J-John I-"

"Yea."

A final twist and Sherlock came, spilling all over John's hand and chest. The silent scream and look of pure pleasure on his face sent the doctor over the edge. He crashed,leaning into Sherlock as they both slid to the floor.

And few moments passed before either of them recovered.

"Sherlock we should probably clean ourselves up. That was the original intention of this shower."

Sherlock groaned, but grabbed a flannel and wiped the two of them down anyway.

John managed to stand them up and finish rinsing the detective's hair , before quicly washing his own. He fumbled and switched the water off, before tossing a towel at Sherlock.

"Dry off and we can lay down for a bit longer" Sherlock grunted himself off before wrapping the towel around his hair, twisting it so it stays in place.

John watched the proceedings quizically, before slipping into his own dressing gown.

"Don't laugh John. I hate overly wet hair, but blow drying this is a bad idea."

The doctor simply smiled and shrugged.

"What ever floats your boat mate. Your gown is on the hook."

Sherlock snatching the garment and shrugged into it, refusing to tie the belt.

John didn't mention it, he simply walked out of the room and down the steps, Sherlock on his heels.


	14. Chapter 14

They had nearly made it to the kitchen,before John noticed that something was off. He paused just short of the kitchen, while Sherlock strode purposefully in.

Mrs. Hudson turned around, her handwriting flying to her mouth as Sherlock scrambled to cover himself.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

He shrieked , his voice uncharacteristically high pitched.

John skidded in, stuck between being embarrassed for Sherlock and laughing at the whole thing.

"Oh my heavens! Sherlock! Oh dear."

She leaned back against the counter, and started fanning herself lightly.

John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder in passing, before going over and helping their landlady into a chair.

"Are you alright?" He questioned softly, taking her pulse and glancing up at Sherlock.

The detective grabbed one of the mugs from the counter and poured the tea Mrs. Hudson had been preparing. He gave it to the woman, who excepted his apology graciously.

"I'm terribly sorry dears. I knocked, and assumed that you were still in bed, post case sleep and all that."

She glanced between the two of them.

"I was right of course, though not entirely."

She pulled back the collar of John's dressing gown and tutted approvingly.

"Took you two long enough"

She took a sip of her tea and grinned at the two blushing men before her.

"Though you could have given me a bit of a heads up. I'm far too old for an early morning view like that.

John stifled a grin and Sherlock spun around attempting to hide his blush.

"I'm going to go, err, get dressed."

He muttered, leaving John and their landlady alone.

"You know, with looks like that, I'm sorry I'm not younger. You are mighty lucky."

Mrs. Hudson winked.

The doctor coughed , standing up and blushing furiously.

"Err, umm, yes, yes I am." She nodded, getting up and pointing at the basket on the counter.

"Muffins and some fresh made jam. I also picked up some more of those Pims things you like so much. Figured you could use a pick me up."

She glanced at the door.

"Though I see you don't need it."

John fought valiantly to keep his blush under control, but failed.

"Well I'll be off then. Tell Sherlock good morning. Milk is in the fridge!"

She the door, with John blurting a "Thank you" after her.

Sherlock scrambled out as soon as he heard the door slam, his purple shirt unbuttoned and untucked from his black trousers

"Is she gone?"

He stage whispered, head peaking gingerly into the kitchen.

John nodded popping into a chair with his own mug of tea

"That was one way to start the day."

Sherlock glared at him, snatching a muffin from the basket.

"Any thoughts of keeping us secret just went out the window. Half of London will know by lunch."

John chuckled, setting his mug down before stretching languidly.

Sherlock watched the sides of John's gown move, revealing his thighs.

"On the plus side it saves us the awkward task of coming out on our own."

That drew a smirk from the detective.

"Poor Molly will be heart broken."

The genuine sadness in Sherlock's voice pulled at John's heart.

"I'll make sure to tell her personally. In fact."

When stood, snatching the muffin from Sherlock's had and taking a bite, before handing it back. He dashed out of the kitchen.

Sherlock followed him, curious.

"What are you doing?"

The doctor paused on the steps.

"I'm going to get dressed, and then I am going to take Molly to lunch, and break the news. And don't say that you should do it,it'll look hurt her worse to be openly rejected like that."

Sherlock conceded, following John into his room.

"I can meet you afterwards then."

John tore off his robe, rummaging through his drawer befre selecting a pair of red pants.

"To do what?"

Sherlock shrugged, his mouth watering slightly at the sight before him.

"I don't know! What do couples usually do when they have the afternoon to themselves?"

The , wriggling into a slightly too tight pair of jeans before snagging a blue button up from the rack.

"Go to the park."

The detective frowned.

"Dull."

"Watch a movie?"

"Boring."

"Lay in and cuddle."

"That's better."

John paused, shirt half buttoned, and gawked at his flatmate.

"Really?"

His disbelief was palpable in the air.

Sherlock shift on his feet, his hands clasping behind him, a soft blush painting his chest and cheeks.

"Yes. I mean what we did last night, before the whole, you know, that was good. Umm very good."

He cleared his throat, fingers fidgeting get behind his back.

"Well then. I'll pick up a documentary or something on my way back, and I guess we'll cuddle."

Sherlock nodded, his posture relaxing slightly.

"This is obviously not normal."

John laughed, his fingers quickly finishing their task. He strode forward swiftly.

" Nope. But neither are we, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips before leaving the room.


	15. Chapter 15

John made it out of the door to 221B remarkably without any interference.

He went for his phone, and then remembered exactly what fate the device met. He found the nearest phonebooth, and called Molly.

"Hello?"

She sounded ok. News hadn't reached her then.

"Hey, Hi, Molly, It's John."

He fidgeted with the phone cord.

"Oh, hey John, didn't recognize the number."

John chuckled.

"I'm at a pay phone."

"Oh, what happened to your mobile?"

He found himself shrugging, and chuckled.

"Sherlock threw it into incoming traffic."

There was the wonderful of something clinging. Most likely a beaker.

"Oh, that makes sense, I guess. I mean it is Sherlock, and he does things that don't really make sense, to people, except you. Not saying that you don't make sense. Just that, well-"

John stifled a laugh at the poor woman's rambling.

"I get you. Anyway, I was wondering, if you would like to snag lunch this afternoon?"

There was the sound of papers shuffling.

"Umm, sure, is Sherlock going to be there?"

The note of apprehensive hope tugged at the doctor.

"Nope, 'fraid not. Just me. Still up for it?"

There was a muffled sigh across the line.

"Yes, sure."

Overly false cheeriness. She was really trying.

"Great. I'll meet you at Bart's in Twenty?"

"Thirty. I've a body coming in that I need to carve the kidneys out of."

The doctor winced slightly.

"Yea, alright. Gives me time to get a new phone."

"Right. Ok. See you then."

"Yea"

The line went dead, and he huffed, shaking his head.

She was going to be crushed.

Just when he was about to cancel his plan, the phone rang.

He picked it up, half expecting it to be Molly calling to cancel.

"I understand that you and my brother have finally gone to bed together."

John leaned his head against the cool glass of the phone booth, not even bothering to hide his exasperation.

Of course Mycroft knew.

He probably videoed the whole thing.

"What does it matter to you?"

His voice sounded gruff, commanding. The sort of militant voice he hadn't used in years.

"No need to use your captain voice. I only wished to extend to you my congratulations. It takes a special kind of creature to tolerate my brother. I'm tempted to have you knighted for bedding him."

John rolled his eyes. Knowing good and damn well that the elder Holmes could see him.

"Did you seriously just ring me so that you could congratulate me on shagging your brother?"

Mycroft's dry chuckled crackled through the phone.

"No dear Watson. I called to inform you of your new status. You are now at the same priority level as my brother. With level 2 clearance, and the other upgrades given to a Holmes."

John squared his shoulders.

"I'm his partner, not his husband."

Mycroft sighed.

"You know as well as I do that with Sherlock there is no difference there. You've practically been married since you stepped foot into 221B Baker Street."

John huffed indigently.

Looking back, he really has been under the detective's thumb all of these years.

"Fine. Yes, you're right. So what now? I get a camera in the shower and a trace on my credit cards. Your dogs bark at every eye that wanders in my direction?"

The laughter was genuine this time, full and bold.

"More like a government issue phone that I can keep tabs on, a few more minor gifts that my assistant will be bringing to you. Oh, and the opening of Sherlock's trust upon the day of your engagement."

John's mouth went dry.

"Trust? As in trust fund?"

"Yes. We Holmes' are a rather prestigious family, with quite a lofty sum in the bank. In an attempt at making sure that my dearest brother does eventually get married, Mummy dearest put a fair chunk of his inheritance in a trust."

John thought of the abundance of Sherlock's current funds, and paled slightly.

"He has more money?"

"I assure that the modest sum he is currently living off is little more than his earning from the cases he's solved. Moving on. "

John coughed and straightened up.

"You are now required to attend at least three formal functions a year, a stipulation that Sherlock does not follow."

He swallowed thickly, glancing at his watch. 20 minutes until he had to meet Molly.

"You will have the option of transportation at all times. Though I know that Sherlock will prefer the use of more public options."

John nodded.

"Anything else?"

" Yes. Just one thing. If you break his heart. If you leave him for any reason. I will personally hunt you down and end your life. John Hamish Watson will never have existed, your sister, her partner, their adoptive and potentially adoptive children will all be removed. If you want out, this is your one and only opportunity."

John nodded taking a deep breath.

"Yes. Fine. Alright. I love that git, I don't plan on leaving him." He could almost see Mycroft tapping his cane.

"Good. Good. Now, I do believe that you have a lunch date. My assistant will escort you to Saint Bart's."

Exactly on cue, the sleek black car rolled up to the curb, the door opening itself.

With the muttering of a man condemned he crawled into the back seat.


	16. Chapter 16

As soon as he had shut the door a heavy black briefcase was placed on his lap.

"That was fast."

Mycroft's PA smiled.

"Mr. Holmes prefers efficiency."

John shook his head.

"So what is it today then. Anthea? Mary?"

She cocked her head to the side curiously, her eyes never leaving her phone.

"Deliverance."

The doctor snorted, cracking the case open.

Inside were several thick folders, a sleek black box that John was terrified to open, and - lying atop a new pair of gloves- a brand new, state-of-the-art is phone.

He picked it up gingerly in his hands, marveling at how heavy it was for its compact size.

"It's different from Sherlock's."

He unlocked it, the password preset to one he would already know.

"Yes. Yours is nearly indestructible, quite a bit sturdier than your partners."

John blinked, processing what she said, a slight blush burning his cheeks.

Partner.

He fought back the urge to giggle, instead opting to carry on a conversation.

"And why would I need a tougher phone than Sherlock?

"Please, Doctor Watson, don't insult us. We've seen how rough you are on your phone. Just last week you dropped it down the stairs, where Mrs. Hudson managed to find it."

The doctor rolled his eyes.

"One accident."

Deliverance-not-Anthea shook her head.

"In a long line. Couple that with the fact that Holmes the younger uses your phone more than his own, and you have the need for a more durable phone."

John nodded, scrolling trough the various applications and features.

"So that's it? no long winded explanation on how to work this thing?"

The PA's smile grew wider.

"No. You can figure it out, that much we are certain of. Now. The important thing here is that little box right there."

The doctor eyed it suspiciously.

"I'm not planting anything in our flat. Hell when Sherlock finds out that I've accepted any of this he'll flip his top."

Laughter rang through the car, startling the doctor enough to nearly dump the case into the floor.

"Doctor Watson. I swear that you've never seen a jewelry box before."

The suspicion in his stomach turned to dread. His stomach fell as, with steady hands belying his terror, he reached for the small black cube.

Inside, he found two titanium rings, and a note from Mycroft

For when you finally decide to make your marriage official.

-MH

John snapped the lid shut and dropped it into the case, closing that with a decisive thud.

"He's serious then."

The assistant nodded. pausing in her texting to look up at him.

"i know that you don't want that sort of commitment, especially not this soon, I agree, it's not normal. But the Holmes brothers are not normal. Just consider it Doctor Watson."

He went to rant about how absurd this whole thing was, and how he couldn't possibly propose to Sherlock THE DAY AFTER them getting together.

He wanted to throw the box-and the case all together- out of the car and run away from the madness.

He wanted to do a lot of things.

But the car came to a halt in front of Saint Bart's, the door opened, and he somehow found himself standing alone on the side walk, briefcase in one hand, and a new phone in the other.

John shook his head and made his way into the hospital, navigating the halls and avoiding the majority of crowds on his journey to the lab. he made his way through the door just in time to see Molly appear from the back, eyes slightly red and and hair in a mess around her shoulders.

He panicked, dropping the case and rushing over to her

"Molly. are you alright?"

He gently sat his hands on her shoulders, searching her face for the answer.

She took a deep breath and nodded, a soft smile forcing its way across her lips.

"I'm fine John. Anthony just called me to say that a friend of his was arrested for murder."

John paused for a moment before his lips curled into an "oh."

"Did you know him?"

Molly nodded.

"Yea, met him once or twice. Seemed a bit strange, but no worse than Sherlock."

She blushed then, a hand flying over her mouth.

"Not to say that Sherlock would ever kill anyone. e's not like that. Sociopath not psychopath."

The doctor moved his hands down to her upper arms and smiled softly.

"I know what you meant Molly. Are you ready to go, or do you need a moment?"

She stood there, blank for a moment, before shaking herself.

"Right! Lunch. Sorry, forgot. Yea, let me grab my purse."

She rushed to a hook by the door, snatching her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, opening the door to leave.

"Molly?"

She turned back to face John, who pointed at her shoulders.

"You're still in your lab coat."

She looked down at herself and blushed again, clumsily fumbling out of her lab coat and into the sweater that was hanging by the door.

"Alright there. anything else?"

John shook his head and smiled at her.

"You look great."

He gestured to the door.

"Shall we?"

She nodded, walking out the door, John in tow.

They walked in mutual silence out of the building, neither one really knowing what to say.

The silence followed them the two blocks to the little cafe they both favored.

Finally, as they settled at the table, Molly spoke.

"What's in the briefcase?"

John glanced down at it, and rolled his eyes.

"Some things from Mycroft. I haven't really looked through it."

Molly's eyes bulged.

"Getting care packages from the British Government?"

The doctor laughed.

"Something like that. How did you know about him anyway?"

Molly shrugged.

"Sherlock complains."

That drew another chuckle from the doctor.

Their tea and sandwiches arrived, each one thanking the waiter.

John sipped his tea, trying to think of how to broach the topic at hand to Molly.

He watched Molly's eyes trail over him in that concerned way that they do, and then watched her cheeks grow pink as her eyes settled on the mark Sherlock had left on his neck.

"Who's the lucky girl?"

She buried her smile in her mug, as John stammered and blushed.

"Err well, umm."

He tugged at his collar slightly, exposing the continuation of purple that trailed across his shoulder.

"Oh, whoever she was she clearly knew what she was doing."

John sighed, hanging his head and steeling himself.

He was a soldier after all.

"It wasn't a she."

Molly's eyes bugged out even more, and she nearly spit out her drink.

"No. You?"

John nodded, glancing away and swallowing thickly.

"I never would have thought. Not to say that there is anything wrong with it, or anything. I'm sure that he's a lovely guy."

The doctor nodded once more.

"He is. In fact, that's kind of why I asked you here."

Molly nearly squealed, she leaned forward slightly.

"What is it then. Spill. What's his name? What's he like? Is he handsome? Not to say that he wouldn't be, you're pretty handsome yourself. Not that I'm interested or anything. You're taken and all. Are you taken? Or was it just a one off? God sorry, I shouldn't ask that. Was it though? A one off-"

John took a deep breath.

"Molly."

"If it was then I'm totally not judging. Are you wanting me to help you ask him on another date-"

The doctor could see that she wasn't going to stop. He was desperate to just get it out.

"Molly it's Sherlock."

"Because i know this great little place by the-"

She blinked, freezing in the middle of her sentence and growing dangerously still.

"It's Sherlock. I'm dating Sherlock Molly."

She blinked rapidly, obviously in shock.

"That's why I brought you here. I figured that you should hear it straight from the horses mouth. I know that you had a thing for him and I' sorry but-"

"No."

the doctor squinted at her in confusion.

"Sorry, what?"

She looked him in the eye, her bottom lip trembling slightly and her eyes moist.

"Don't apologize. Don't be sorry. If you are happy, and he is happy, then it's all fine."

She tilted her head back, and John saw her clench her jaw. When she looked at him again the tears were gone.

"Are you happy? Is he happy?"

John nodded.

"I am, and God i hope that he is too."

She smiled softly.

"I know that he is. He's fancied you for a while."

The doctor blushed slightly.

Molly waved for a check and downed the rest of her tea.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded, paying for her barely touched meal and standing. John followed suit, gripping his briefcase tightly.

"Thank you for thinking of me John."

He nodded, and smiled into her hair as she hugged him.

He patted her back comfortingly.

"Want me to walk you back?"

She shook her head.

"No, I think I'll go it alone. See you John."

The doctor waved at her.

"call me if you need anything."

She waved back, leaving the cafe.

John paid for his meal, getting a box for what remained of his sandwich.

As he left his new phone beeped, the message tone causing him to jump.

"Bloody thing being so loud."

He paused and thumbed the phone open, only to see that he had a new message.

From Sherlock.

Oh no.


	17. Chapter 17

John swallowed thickly and tapped the message, expecting a scathing reprimand for comfortingly with Mycroft.

Need a few things from the shop. Care to pick them up?

-SH

John squinted at his phone.

Yea, Sure. What do you need?

-J

He took a few steps forward before he got his reply.

Milk. Those snack things I like. Lube.

-SH

John froze.

What?

Did he seriously just-

And person slammed into him from behind, shouting something along the lines of "dumbass standing the the middle of the sidewalk."

John's phone flew out of his hand and skittered amongst the crowd.

And woman-mid thirties, attractive, DEFINATLY the type of girl John would have picked up in the past- scooped the phone phonefrom the ground. She glanced the message, and blushed, as John made his way to her.

"I believe this is yours."

She mumbled, and John nodded, taking his phone back from her.

She giggled, a quiet. "Good luck." Falling from her lips as she made her way through the crowd.

Puzzled, John looked down at his phone, and his ears burned red.

He had gotten another message from Sherlock.

Don't bother with condoms. We both know I'm clean. You proved your knowledge of that last night.

-SH

I know you're clean too. Checked your records from the clinic.

-SH

John shook his head and huffed, exasperated.

Honestly.

How did you even get those? Doesn't matter. I'm not picking THAT up. I don't know what to get.

-J

He hadn't even managed a step before Sherlock responded.

LUBE John. Honestly it isn't that difficult.

-SH

The doctor snorted.

What kind? How much? I have no idea what I'm doing.

-J

And it easy true. He'd bought these kinds of things before, but never for this kind of, activity. He had no clue what to get.

You're the one with all the experience here.

-SH

There was a pause, in which John kept walking.

I can answer that second part though.

-SH

The doctor didn't respond.

A lot, John. We need a lot.

-SH

John's eyes grew wide and his mouth went dry as he read that message.

His mind flowing over dozens of scenarios and possibilities that left him breathless.

He ducked into the nearest shop, making his way directly to the healthcare section.

He was utterly amazed by the quantity of selections they had.

God Sherlock, there has to be 60 different kinds here. How the fuck am I supposed to choose?

-J

No response. John sighed and glanced around nervously.

He felt himself pale as his eyes landed on none other than Greg Lestrade.

Shit, Lestrade is here. What if he sees me?

-J

As if on cue, the DI turned around and caught sight of the doctor. He waved, and walked over, a giant grin plastered on his face.

"Well well, fancy seeing you here. Figured you'd be tethered to Sherlock. Congratulations by the way."

John shifted nervously, his gaze flicking to the shelf beside him.

"Uh, yea, just picking up a few things for Sherlock."

The DI chuckled and pointed to the shelf.

"Just for Sherlock eh?"

The doctor groaned and hung his head, much to the amusement of the DI.

"Shit, you've caught me."

John looked up and chuckled.

"Don't suppose you could help a mate out and tell me which of these I need."

It was Lestrade's turn to blush.

"Uh, yea actually."

He grabbed a bottle off of the shelf and placed it into John's basket.

The doctor stared at him, openmouthed.

"Seriously?."

His disbelief was palpable.

Lestrade nodded.

"It's a, uhh, it's a good brand. A bit pricey, but, uhh, yea. Good."

The DI turned to leave, but John caught his arm, spinning him around so they were face to face.

"Who?"

The DI shifted nervously and glanced at the CCTV cameras now trained on them.

He coughed.

Understanding shone in the doctor's eyes.

"No."

There was the slightest of nods.

"Seriously? You and Mycroft?"

Lestrade nodded, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders.

"Yes, we, umm, we sort of, we dabble."

John shook his head and tried cross his arm, the briefcase and basket impeding the action.

"Since when.?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"Since Sherlock finished rehab."

The doctor smiled.

"Does Sherlock know?"

The DI shook his head.

"God no. If he did do you honestly think he'd let me live it down?"

John had to admit, Sherlock wouldn't.

"So, umm- God Greg this is awkward- but any other recommendations? I mean, I'm kind of new to all of this and-"

Lestrade held up his hands.

"Please, just, stop."

He turned and pulled two more bottles from the shelf, dumping them into the basket.

"There. Please tell me you don't need help with anything else?"

His eyes wandering to the other end of the isle.

John's eyes widened and he shook his head , both hands in front of him.

"No! No, we, ah, we're good there, thanks."

The two men stood awkwardly in front of each other, neither one knowing what to say.

"Umm, well-"

John nodded his head towards the registers.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and nodded.

"Yea, yea of course. It was ah, good seeing you, I guess."

"Yea."

There was a few awkward waves as they parted, John heading to grab the other groceries he needed.

As soon as be was out of the DI's line of sight, he texted Sherlock.

That was the single most awkward moment of my life.

-J

He grabbed a few bags of sweets, using them to bury the other contents of his basket.

I take it Lestrade saw you then.

-SH

The doctor rolled his eyes.

No shit Sherlock.

-J

He could practically see the scowl Sherlock must have been giving him through the phone.

What is it with your propensity for using that phrase?

-SH

John couldn't help himself. The image of a Sherlock pouting at his phone was enough to make any sane man fight a smile.

It came as no shock that he burst into a fit of giggles.

The strange looks he garnered from the two old ladies puttering about the isle was nothing compared to the hilariously confused expression that filled the DI's features as he peered around the corner.

"Was that you?"

John shrugged and grabbed a box of cereal from it's shelf.

Lestrade made his way back to the doctor, his own groceries piled precariously in his arms.

"What's so funny?"

The doctor shook his head and grinned at his phone, holding it up to display the previous segments of his conversation to the DI.

Lestrade grinned and rolled his eyes.

"You do use that a lot."

John shrugged again, making his way to the back of the store, Lestrade at his side.

"Nice phone by the way. What model?"

"No idea. It was a gift from your boyfriend, actually. Bit of a 'Congratulations for shagging my brother gift, as odd as that sounds.'"

The DI shook his head, leaning back to re-balance the bottle of shampoo that was now threatening to fall to the floor.

"That does sound like him. You'd be surprised at how similar he and Sherlock are."

John nodded in agreement, wrestling a bottle of milk into the biscuits nearly crushing a bag of Twizzlers in the process.

"I can imagine. Blimey if i would have known that you were with Mycroft sooner..."

The DI furrowed his brow.

"You would have, what."

The doctor shrugged.

"Used you as a sounding board? I'm sure there's been occasion you've wanted to vent to someone who would understand."

Lestrade nodded once more, this time sending a bag of mints toppling to the floor. John caught it with his foot, which sent both men into a fit of laughter.

"We should do that."

He said, John resettling the mints onto the top of the DI's pile.

"Do what?'

"Meet up at a pub or something, complain about our Holmes, grab a drink or two."

The doctor rolled his eyes, making his way back to the register.

"Like wives complaining about their husbands?"

A shrug.

"Why not. Lord knows you have enough to complain about."

John chuckled, settling his things onto the belt.

"True, and it can't be easy-What was the word you used? Oh.- 'dabbling' with the British Government."

Lestrade frowned, but aquisesed.

"You have a point there."

"You're right though, it would be nice."

The cashier started ringing up John's groceries.

"So The Queen's head, Thursday, work permitting?"

Lestrade nodded, setting his own armful down.

"Sound's like a plan."

Suddenly, both men's attention was turned to the young girl at the register.

She had giggled and was currently covering her mouth with her hand, embarrassed.

"Sorry, sirs. It's just, you two are such a cute couple."

Lestrade's mouth fell open, and even John had to pause.

"I'm sorry. What?"

She held up one of the bottles of lube, shaking it slightly before scanning and bagging it.

"A cute couple."

John shook his head vehemently, raising a hand in abject horror.

"No! We aren't a couple. God no. Just mates."

She looked between the two of them and shook her head, mumbling.

"Yea, and I'm Mary Queen of Scots."

Lestrade bristled and John rolled his eyes, handing her Sherlock's card.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

He hissed, and John simply shrugged.

"I'm used to it with Sherlock."

Greg grinned again.

"But you two are actually a couple though."

John grabbed his groceries and shrugged.

"Apparently. Anyway, give my regards to the queen."

Lestrade went to ask the doctor what he meant, but he was already out the door.

John miraculously made his way to the bus stop, both breifcase and grocries remarkably in tact.

He was relieved to see that the bus was relitivly clear, setting himself into a seat and pulling out his phone.

So how do you make a horribly awkward situation worse?

-J

You didn't answer my question.

-SH

The doctor rolled his eyes, leave it to Sherlock.

He ignored the message, forging on with his own thought.

You have the cashier mistake you for Detective Inspector Lestrade's partner.

-J

There was no response for a few moment, enough for John to contemplate the embarrassment factor of him pulling out and examining exactly what said DI had gotten him to buy.

His phone rang, legitimatly rang, yet again startling the doctor.

He answered it quickly, not bothering with checking the caller ID.

"Hello, Doctor Watson speaking."

Sherlock's voice raspeed over the line, his tone harsh.

"I know who you are John?"

The doctor was taken aback, Sherlock never called.

"What's wrong? Sherlock, you never call."

The concerned note in his voice didn't go unnoticed, as Sherlock's voice dropped from stern to seductive.

"Come home."

John felt his mouth go dry,and he glanced up at the ceiling, attempting to will away the blush blooming on his cheeks.

"I'm on the bus Sherlock."

He heard a groan over the line.

"The bus stop near the Tesco you went to, right? On Holborn?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. Leave it to Sherlock to know exactly what shop he had been in.

"Yes."

"Which means that it will take you approximately 34 minuets to get to our flat given traffic and the speed of your gate."

"Yea, that sounds about right."

"Get off the bus at the next stop. catch a cab, use my card to pay. That'll shave around 20 minuets from your time."

The doctor huffed.

"Why should I? Is there a case or something?"

He could practically hear the detectives scowl.

"As a doctor, you hate exposing yourself to bacteria of any kind, and buses are loaded down with bacteria."

John grinned.

He was going to play that game then?

Fine.

"So are cabs. And I've already paid for this ticket."

"You have a buss pass."

"One that saves me money."

"I have plenty of money, John."

The doctor thought back to his conversation with Lestrade.

Pricey?

He glanced down at his receipt and grimaced.

"Maybe not, considering how much money I just spent for what you asked for at the store. "

He could here the rustling of clothes as Sherlock straitened in alarm.

"Milk can't be that expensive."

John rolled his eyes once more.

"I'm not talking any sort of food source."

He glanced into the bag and swallowed another chuckle.

"Though it is edible, apparently."

The line clicked off then, leaving John to stare at his phone questioningly.

A few moments passed, before one more message was received.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: I am so so terribly, horribly, completely ad utterly sorry. **

The icon showed a picture message.

John's moth went dry as he clicked the image, head and heart praying for a sneak peek of Sherlock.

Instead, he was met with the image of a note.

A yellow post it stuck to the underneath the oh-so-recognizable numbers of 221B.

My sister's come down with the flu. I'll be gone for a few days.

-Mrs. Hudson.

P.S. I have extra milk in my fridge if you boys need it.

The delicate scrawl and content of the note should not have been arousing in any way.

Hell it was just another note from Mrs. Hudson.

However.

The knowledge that he and Sherlock would have the place entirely to themselves for an indeterminate amount of time...

The next stop was met with a very flustered John Watson Bursting from the bus, his arms full of groceries and a briefcase swinging wildly from his wrist.

He hailed a cab as quickly as he could, managing to shove himself inside and bark out his address.

No more than ten minuets later he was clambering up the stairs.

He burst through the door, the bag of groceries in his arms being swept away the moment he crossed the threshold.

With the speed and efficiency of a man possessed, Sherlock had all of the groceries pt away, the proper bottle of lube tucked safely in his dressing gown pocket, and his blogger pinned to the wall in a searing kiss.

John, on the other hand, seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Time ground to a halt as he was pressed against the wall, a still barely dressed Sherlock enveloping him.

Tongues and teeth colliding, fingers scrambling to remove item after item of clothing.

John was still pinned to the wall, his jacket and jumper in a heap on the floor, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders.

Sherlock had his hand down the back of John's pants, while the doctor hand his firmly wrapped around Sherlock's ass.

After several moments of clinging and kissing, there was a break, on Sherlock's part.

"What took you so long."

John rolled his eyes, despite himself, earning a -very infuriating- nip to his lips.

"Good things...are worth the wait."

Sherlock laughed, a genuine, deep laugh, his head thrown back by the force of it.

John squinted up at Sherlock, a cocky grin plastered across his face.

"Leave it to you, John Hamish Watson, to use cheesy cliches in moments like this."

John slid his hands around to his hips, using them to pull the detective even closer to him.

"Doctor. Doctor John Hamish Watson."

Sherlock grinned, leaning down and whispering darkly into his ear.

"I think I need a doctor."

That did it.

John laughed, pushing Sherlock away before latching his lips back to the detectives, using the leverage of having Sherlock pulled down to move them into the living room.

Sherlock nearly groaned as his legs hit the arm of the couch. It was just too similar to the night before. Too boring.

He gripped John to him tightly, grinding himself against him, while simultaneously backing him to his bedroom.

The same moment John's back hit the wood of the door, his phone went off in his pocket.

He completely ignored it, being far to focused on the lips creating a magnificent bruise on a previously unblemished portion of his neck.

"If this keeps up, I'll have to start stealing your scarves."

Sherlock chuckled, the thought of his blogger wearing his scarf as ridiculous as it was arousing.

John's phone buzzed a second time, earning the doctor a scowl from Sherlock, who stopped what he was doing to pry the phone from the doctor's pocket.

"What-Why-"

Sherlock smiled at the doctor's breathy whine, unlocking the phone with ease and tapping the message.

Lestrade.

Now?

Why?

John rolled is eyes and pushed himself forward, attempting to recapture Sherlock's lips.

The detective sidestepped him, resulting in him landing unceremoniously on the floor.

He opened the message.

We are a go for Thursday on this side. Looking forward to it.

-GL

The doctor watched Sherlock's face pale, and his lust-darkened eyes burn with fury.

Over what?

"Ignore it."

Sherlock stood stock still, his rigid posture resulting in him towering over the doctor.

"Sherlock?"

"No."

John found his phone hitting him squarely in the stomach, the force of it briefly winding him.

In the time it took him to recover, and utter a completely shocked what the hell, Sherlock had locked himself in his room.


	19. Chapter 19

John simply sat there, dumbfounded by this complete turnabout of events.

What the hell could anyone possibly have said that would have Sherlock so upset?

We are a go for Thursday on this side. Looking forward to it.

-GL

He rolled his eyes at the message and huffed, hauling himself off of the floor before pounding his fist against Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock. It isn't what you think. Lestrade and I were just going to the pub for a chat."

No response.

"Look,I know how that looked, but bloody hell do you honestly think that I would cheat on you? Especially with Lestrade of all people. I mean I love YOU you git. Only you."

No sound of movement of any kind.

"Sherlock?"

The doctor twisted the door knob, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.

Even though it had been mere moments, Sherlock would most likely have found a way to endanger himself somehow.

Sure enough, he entered a room completely devoid of the lanky detective.

"Oh fucking hell."

John zipped his jeans up and pulled his shirt around him, noticing with a gran that half of the buttons were gone.

Ah hell.

He cast the shirt aside and leaned out the window, feebly hoping that the detective may still be in sight.

With no sign of him prowling around the afternoon streets of London, he slammed the window shut.

Think.

Where would Sherlock go if he was extremely pissed off and hurt?

Home.

Here.

No good.

Who would he talk to if he need to figure something out?

Him.

Shit.

John ran is fingers, through his hair, frustrated.

"Come on Watson, think."

He pulled open the drawers of Sherlock's dresser, scanning them for any sort of clue to the detective's were about.

Aside from an alarming number of vintage T-shirts - one of which the doctor slipped into, for convenience of course- there was nothing.

His desk?

Nothing.

The Bathroom?

Nope.

Closet?

Nothing.

He was completely gone.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. And John seriously considered throwing it at the wall.

Instead, he glared at it.

Another message, this one from Sarah, at the clinic.

Doctor Vora has left early. Need you to come in. Just until 6.

-SS

John ran his hand over his face and marched to the living room, any thoughts of what had happened previously gone from his head.

He sent one text to Sarah

On my way.

-J

And one to his detective.

You're an idiot. I have to go to the clinic. Please don't do anything stupid.

-J

He picked his crumpled jumper and jacket from the floor, untangling them and slipping them on, opening the door and heading down the stairs.

As soon as the door slammed, Sherlock crawled out of his place from underneath the bed, shaking slightly as he flopped onto his bed.

He was furious, not with John or Lestrade, but with himself.

He had jumped to conclusions, and now John was gone.

How is he going to fix this one.

Think.

His phone buzzed on the side table, and he glanced at it.

You're an idiot. I have to go to the clinic. Please don't do anything stupid.

-J

Sherlock flopped back on the bed, willing himself to seep through it into oblivion.

He needed to get out, clear his head.

He needed to fix things with John.

He needed a cigarette.

That meant leaving the flat.

One sweeping glance around the room, and his gaze came to rest on John's shirt.

One crumpled wad of fabric with missing buttons and the sort of comfortingly normal warmth that could only belong to his blogger.

Sherlock shot off a series of quickfire texts, while scrambling into some clothes.

Not wishing to deal with buttons or hooks, he simply pulled himself into an old pair of jeans.

Bent on simply wearing a T, he pawed through the drawer, immediately noticing that one was missing.

One of his favorites.

And the only place that it could be would be on one John Watson.

An idea blindsided Sherlock, the brilliance of it making hims smile.

This would work.

He was sure of it.

After all, wasn't turnabout fair play?

John had managed not to draw too much attention as he made his way to his office, though many wayward glanced seemed to settle on his neck.

Not a word was said, that is, until Sarah caught sight of him.

"What happened to you then?" You get a few days off and lose a fight with an octopus?"

The laughter rang through her voice, and John rolled his eyes tiredly.

"It's been a hell of a ride, Let me say that.

He picked up the chart that was currently sitting on the counter and flipped through it.

Mary Morstan: Female

Age: 31

Weight: 126lbs

Ailment: Mandatory followup on punch biopsy.

"You have that one, two colds, one concussion followup, and two dressing changes."

John nodded, grabbing the stack of charts and making to moce to the exam room, when Sarah's laughter stopped him.

"What?"

She shook her head, grinning at him.

"I just won fifty quid."

John raised an eyebrow, curious, and turned. He made it to the exam room door before-

"Congratulations on making it official John. Glad to see you two finally hooked up."

For a split second, he debated between denying it or coming back with some witty retort, bit decided against it.

He simply waked quickly into the room, shrugging out of his jacket and jumper, and into his lab coat.

Once he had everything settled, he called for the patient.

Now, John Watson had survived many things:

High School.

University.

Medical school.

Afghanistan.

Sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

Getting romantically involved with said flatmate.

Your elderly landlady finding out about said relationship.

Followed by Mycroft Holmes attempting to get him to get engaged to his flatmate/lover.

Having to reveal his relationship to a woman who was infatuated with Sherlock.

A random woman on the street seeing a very provocative message from Sherlock, before handing him back his phone.

Lube Shopping with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The "First fight" with Sherlock over a text from the DI.

The past 8 items on this list of events having occurred in the past 24 hours.

Now he was sitting in his chair, staring, open-mouthed, at the very same woman who had picked u his phone earlier.

The universe fucking sucked.

"Mary Morstan ?"

He croaked, his voice catching.

The woman looked at him, her eyes wide and cheeks red.

"YOU are Doctor Watson."

She pointed an accusatory finger at him.

He tugged at his collar, regretting it as he saw her eyes glue to the purple bruising there.

"Yes, yes. Take a seat."

He gestured to the exam table, where the woman managed to place herself, despite her eyes ever leaving the doctor.

"So, we are doing a follow up on a mole removal, right?"

She nodded, holding out her arms to show the small circular wound.

John stood, examining the wound for any sins of infection.

Satisfied,he leaned back against the counter and flipped open her chart.

"Alright. So your wound looks great. it's heal wonderfully, and your chart here says that your tests came back negative. No signs of melanoma."

The woman let out a sigh and seemed to relax.

"That's good. Great really."

John smiled at her.

"Yes, now do you have any questions about anything?"

His phone buzzed in his pocket, he quickly silenced it.

"Medically, no."

The doctor's throat tightened.

"And otherwise?"

The woman's blush returned, and she coughed slightly, looking away.

"Are you really Doctor John Watson? Like the one with the blog?"

It was Johns turn to blush.

"Yes, actually, you've read my blog?"

She nodded, and then stood.

"Alright then. Thank you Doctor Watson."

She was gone.

John blinked.

Once.

Twice.

the buzzing resumed in his pocket, a reminder of the texts he had ignored.

They were from Sherlock.

He quickly flipped to them, praying that the detective was alright.

On a case

-SH

Don't bother waiting up.

-SH

Won't be back for a while

-SH

John groaned, glancing at his watch.

Three hours left to work, and then back to an empty flat.

He sent a message to Lestrade.

Mind going out for that drink tonight?

-J

There was barely a pause before he got a response.

Sure. Tel me all about it tonight. Same place. Say 7?"

-GL

John smiled.

Sure. That obvious?"

-J

It was clear that the DI knew the Sherlock had something to do with the sudden change in plans.

Yea. But you still have to love him.

-GL

The doctor had to agree.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:This chapter is a tie in for a ParentLock fic I'm working on as a continuation piece (Yes I know I'm not technically finished with this one, hush.) If ParentLock isn't your thing (I won't judge) You can skim it,skip it,whatever. Though it's more of good-with-kids-John than anything else. I should probably point out that I actually do have a point in this chapter. **

As far as work days go, this one had been terrible.

One of the two colds was actually a case of the flu, which had John wearing gloves and a mask in an attempt to lessen his exposure.

However, such measures tend to frighten impressionable 8 year old boys.

The other cold had been a case of hypochondria run rampant.

What was really a simple case of the sniffles had turned into nearly an hour of listing diseases that the woman didn't have, a whole panel of blood work scheduled and a very tired John grumbling for the concussed child to come it.

That was when things became interesting.

It was clear that the child was malnourished, and he bore the marks of abuse.

Bruises and lacerations coated his body, some of them distinctly hand shaped.

He shuffled in with his head down, avoiding physical contact with the woman, and tensing as he entered the room.

The woman who brought the young boy to the door wore the stern expression of a social worker.

The door shut behind the woman, leaving the doctor alone with the shaking child.

John plasteered on a soft expression, not wanting to frighten the child.

"Hey, I'm Doctor Watson. What's your name?"

The kid glanced up, eyes widening in surprise.

"You were with the tall one."

He squeaked, his voice small and quiet.

John's brow furrowed as he sat down in front of the boy.

"Oh? Have we met then?"

The boy nodded.

"You and the tall guy found mummy and put Jonas in jail."

John blinked in surprise.

He remembered that case.

A woman had been reported missing from work, which lead to an investigation.

Her body had turned up a few days later, strangled and naked on the shores of the Thames, Sherlock had been asked to deal with it.

It had been a relatively easy case to solve, but in the process of capturing the murder-the live in boyfriend- Sherlock had noticed that one of the cupboards had been locked.

The detective had tackled the murderer, and John had kicked in the cupboard door.

Inside he had found the curled and broken body of a child.

He had gotten to work, picking the boy up and carrying him to the living room, wrapping him in his own jumper and soothing his tears until an ambulance arrived to take him away.

The doctor had not gotten a good look at the kid,yet here he was, sitting in front of him.

"I remember you."

The kid nodded.

"I never did get your name."

"Hamish."

The doctor smiled.

"That's a great name. A strong name. For a strong kid."

The boy nodded again, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Go on then, smile. Laugh if you want to."

Hamish did smile then, a full smile that revealed missing teeth and cracked lips.

"There you go. See wasn't so hard then."

The doctor stood up, pulling on a pair of gloves before turning.

He was stopped by the sound of quiet giggling.

"Hamish?"

The boy pointed to his shirt, and John glanced down on it.

The faded blue shirt had grey block letters writing out, "All the good puns argon."

John shook his head, and then squinted at the child once more.

"You get chemistry jokes?"

The boy nodded, swinging his feet lightly.

"Yea, I had a chemistry set once, before Jonas moved in. I still read about it in school."

John glanced back at his chart.

Age:7

Huh.

"It's my friend, the tall one, his shirt. He does chemistry when he isn't being a detective."

The boy looked at him inquisitively, his sharp green eyes directing the doctor.

"You love him, don't ya?"

John blushed, clearing his throat.

"Yes, now, how did you get that?"

The boy waved his hand.

"You're wearing his shirt, you smell like adrenaline, and you blush when I talk about him."

John stood there, mouth open in surprise.

He raised his hand in his usual casual gesture to ask him to wait, to explain.

The boy suddenly paled, and wrapped his arms protectively over his stomach.

"Oh, no. Sorry, so sorry. Please, I'm sorry."

John bent forward putting his hands up in surrender.

"No, no. You're alright. You're ok. It's not a problem. No one is going to hurt you."

The boy raised his head, blinking at the doctor.

"Really?"

John nodded.

"Yea. Sherlock, the tall one, he does that too. Reads people. I'm used to it buddy."

The boy shook his head, relaxing slightly.

"A lot of people don't like it. The kids at school, Jonas. Mrs. Boulder."

"Mrs. Boulder?"

"My worker. I pointed out that her husband loved someone else and she made me sit in the corner forever."

John shook his head.

This was way too weird.

"Well no worries here, mate."

John clapped his hands, standing up and making the kid jump.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you."

The boy smiled shakily.

"It's fine."

John sighed, holding his hands up once more.

"I'm going to have to touch you to examine your concussion. Is that alright?"

"The boy nodded, tensing up as John carried on his examination.

He kept each touch to the bare minimum, hoping not to frighten the boy.

Once he had finished, he gently patted the boy's shoulder.

"All done. You're healing nicely."

The boy nodded, climbing down from the table.

"Anything else Doctor Watson?"

John shook his head.

"Not really. Just, don't let the bullies get to you, yea? You have a gift, don't give it up."

The boy seemed to examine the doctor carefully, before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around the doctor's legs.

"Oh hey there."

He chuckled, and the boy smiled up at him.

"Thank you sir."

He released the doctor and opened the door, teetering out with a grin on his face.

The social worker looked utterly shocked at the boy's expression.

"What did you say to him? He hasn't shown any emotion in a week."

John shrugged.

"He's a gifted kid. I only informed him of that."

The woman looked at him as though he had just slapped her.

"You mean his horrible habit of dissecting people's private lives?"

John bristled, but nodded.

"Wait a moment."

John pulled a post it note off of the nurse's station, scribbling his number on it and handing it to the worker.

"If he starts getting bad with his whole, deduction thing, call me. My partner has the same gift, I know how to handle it."

The woman blinked rapidly.

"Partner?"

John blushed.

"Yea, we live together. He forgets his pants, I blog about it."

The woman recoiled, the note falling from her hand.

"That kind of partner then."

Her speech was clipped, angry, disgusted.

"You should not be allowed to work with children."

She backed away, savagely grabbing the boys hand and hauling him after her, spitting venom as she walked.

"Honestly don't they screen you guys before they let you work here?"

John stood there, his breath shallow with anger and pain.

How was amazed at how one change in the sex of your partner takes you form the place of "You'd be a great dad," to, "You should not be allowed to work with children."

He glanced up to see Hamish waving at him, the purple post-it clutched tight in his fist.

The boy was smart, he would be alright.

The rest of the the work day was thoroughly uneventful, with the doctor being not only distracted, but physically and emotionally exhausted as well.

It was nearly 7 before John managed to escape for work.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: This chapter gets every thing back on track-ish. Fair bit of Mystrade here though, sorry, couldn't be helped. **

His thoughts were so scattered between the events of the day, Sherlock back home, and that poor kid from earlier, that he didn't here his phone ringing until he was almost nose to nose with the detective inspector calling him.

"There you are! I've been calling you for the past hour! What took you so long?"

John looked up, guilt and embarrassment scrawled over his features.

"Sorry, I didn't get off until 7."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"And then decided to walk, without checking your phone?"

John hung his head with a huff.

"It's been an extremely long day."

He looked up and hooked a thumb at the pub door.

"Can we go in, or are you going to stand there and nag at me like I'm a delinquent teenager?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, trudging into the public with John in tow.

They settled into a corner booth, ordering pint a piece.

"Alright then, spit it out. What did he do that could have turned your day fro a fantastic shopping trip to trudging to the bar."

John sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

"I was not trudging."

The DI rolled his eyes.

"Look mate, I saw you. You had the gate of a man condemned."

The doctor sighed.

"Do you want the full story, or the abridged version."

Lestrade shrugged, smiling kindly at the girl who brought their beers and taking a sip.

"Summarize it, please leave out any of the graphic details. I want to be able to respect you in the morning."

That drew a laugh from the doctor.

" Alright fine,but you asked for it."

John took along swig to fortify himself.

"It allstarted last night-"

He saw the ear inthe DI's eyes, andraiseda hand tocalm him.

"Hush, let me talk. Last night was our frst kiss, yea? You saw the aftermath of that one."

The DInodded.

"You must be one hellof alover to get that reation from a kiss."

The doctor blushed and glanced up.

"Not helping Greg."

"Sorry,sorry. Continue."

"Anyway we went home, things...happened, which brings us to my day from hell."

Lestrade nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him.  
"The morning was great, more than great really."

The doctor took a moment to appreciate the memory of his shower.

"But then Mrs. Hudson caught us at breakfast."

Lestrade grinned.

"No not like that, well, a little like that. Lets just say i was dressed, but she did get a ice eyeful of Sherlock."

The DI guffawed into his drink.

"Poor woman. Did she have a heart attack?"

John smiled.

"Anyway, she chatted with us about it, and then proceeded to go gossip about it to anyone who will listen. I wanted to get to Molly before the news did, you know how much she fawned over Sherlock. I wanted to let her know straight from the source. Let her down easy."

John took another sip of his drink.

"I called her on a payphone so we could meet for lunch. No sooner had I ended the call, the phone rang again."

"Myc."

"Yea. At first I thought it was Molly calling me back to cancel because Sherlock wasn't going to be there, instead it was your boyfriend calling me to give me the big brother speech You know the one, Break his heart and you will disappear from any and all records. There would be no such thing as the Watson family tree, that sort of thing."

"Sounds like him."

The doctor raised an inquisitive eyebrow..

"Harsh?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"He's a tough love sort of guy."

The doctor ran a curious glance over the now blushing DI.

"Do I want to-"

"Please god no."

"Alright then. So, He gave me that whole speech, told me he thinks that I should marry Sherlock,gives me a new phone, a blood case with rings and a marriage licence application, and has his assistant take me to lunch with Molly."

Lestrade held up his hands.

"Wait. Myc wants you too to get hitched? You've only been in a relationship for a day."

John slammed is glass down.

"I know! I'm not opposed to the idea, mind. Just not so fucking soon."

"Tell me about it. We've been doing this thing, whatever you want to call it, for almost three years. The flirting bit, ever sense he pointed out that my ex was cheating on me-the first time. Mind we stopped, things, when she and I tried it make it work, but we both know how that turned out."

The doctor tilted his head sympathetically.

"Yet we still don't call ourselves anything. Am I just a shag? Are we a thing? I haven't a clue."

John sighed once more.

"Two extremes. Sorry to hear that though. You obviously seem fond of him."

"I am, heaven help me. Anyway, I interrupted you."

"It's alright. Okay, I'm eating lunch with Molly, yea? and she notices the huge bruise on the side of my neck."

He stretched out his collar for emphasis.

"And she goes on about the lucky girl, I had to correct her."

He grimaced into his drink.

"Then there is this tangent about who he is or how he is, it went on and on. I feel so bad about saying that."

The DI waved his hand in dismissal.

"No worries. I understand."

"So I just blurted out that it was Sherlock. I have to admit she took it better than I thought. She said it was ok, got up, and left."

Lestrade sighed.

"Sounds like a downhill day."

"Oh it gets better."

"Yikes."

"Yea. So I pay for my food and leave, when Sherlock sends me his damned grocery list. I have to read it twice to make sure I wasn't mistaken."

"I could imagine."

"A few more texts on the topic and some bloke comes and bowls over me from behind, sending my phone flying."

"Oh no."

"Yea, and this woman, god Greg, she was gorgeous. She picks up me hone and can't help but read what's o the screen."

"Which was?"

The doctor thumbs open his phone and scrolls quickly through his messages, showing the DI the one in question.

Lestrade 's eyes widen and he buries his laughter in his drink.

"Exactly. I snatch my phone away, I'm dying by this point, I go into the nearest shop-"

"And run into me. I can see where that is going."

"Well after our little escapade I take the bus, Sherlock, well, he's impatient. And it doesn't help that I told him what you made me buy."

The DI chuckled.

"Like that did he?"

"Wouldn't know. Because by the time I've rushed home, we are this close to the bedroom, you text me."

Lestrade paled, his eyes widening in horror.

"Please tell me that I'm not-It wasn't my message that-Oh shit mate."

The doctor shrugs.

"Damage is done. No hard feelings, you didn't mean it. But yea. He read the message and stormed off in a jealous fit."

John finished his beer and waved for two more.

"I preached to his door for a bit until I figured that no one was listening. When I barged in, there was nothing to great me but an empty window."

The next round appeared, and both men took a well needed drink.

"I couldn't figure out where he had went. So then, to add to things, I get a message from Sarah, down at the surgery, that she needs me to finish another doctor's shift. I grab a clean shirt-"

He waved at the tight T-shirt he was now wearing.

"Got Sherlock's message about a case, texted him begging that he not do anything stupid, and went to work."

"Does it get worse?"

"Would you like, ex-girlfriend-now-boss announcing my coming out to the entire facility? The fact that my first patient of the day is the woman who picked up my phone? The case of flu? The elderly hypochondriac? Or he bloody seven year old Sherlock with the homophobic social worker?"

Lestrade shook his head once more, hanging it in sympathy.

"You have had one shitty day."

"Tell me about it."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Sherlock paced the flat restlessly.

He had told John not to wait up for him granted but then again he had expected the doctor to come home right after his shift at the surgery.

It was nearly 9 and there was no sign of his blogger.

Which was seriously putting a damper on his plans for the evening.

His fingers itched to text the doctor, or call him.

To convince him to come home and accept the detective's apology for jumping to conclusions.

No.

He would not beg the doctor to come home.

He would wait this out.

But damn it, where was he?

Didn't he know how hard it was to wait?

Sherlock stood from his perch on his chair and paced.

"If only i knew-"

The detective fired a quick message off to his brother, explaining the happenings of the day and his lack of knowledge of the whereabouts of his blogger.

He is at a pub chatting with Lestrade.

-MH

It appears that his day has really taken a toll on him.

-MH

Sherlock flopped back onto the couch, dejected. Of course John would go to Lestrade.

It made sense.

He still couldn't fight the hollow pit that formed in his stomach.

I'm on my way to sending him home.

-MH

You owe me a favor for this.

-MH

A surge of panic and anger and hope welled in the detective's chest, as he jumped up and resumed pacing once more.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Three hours and four pints later the two men were laughing at some stupid joke a guy at the table next to them had made.

"Right, so anyway, The doorman was giving me and Sherlock the eye, you know the one. So I just grabbed his hand, made some excuse about showing her the mister, and waltzed right in!"

"That's brilliant! You could teach a class down at the Yard over improv or something."

"I know right?"

"It would be a rio-"

The DI's word died in his throat just as the entire pub went silent around them.

"What?"

Mycroft homes entered the room, his umbrella tapping with each step. He finally came to a stop beside their table.

He waved at the bar and the music resumed again, all eyes quickly darting away from the figure.

"Doctor Watson."

He nodded at John.

"Detective Inspector."

His eyes lingered over the inebriated face of Lestrade.

"Doctor Watson, I regret to have to put an end to this evening, but your partner is at home right now, distressed that you are not there to accompany him."

John swallowed thickly, pulling himself from his seat.

The British Government's earlier threat was now pounding in his ears, and he had no desire to evoke it.

"Yea, of course. Is he alright?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"Physically, yes, I'm sure. emotionally, however-"

He let the sentence drop, and John nodded, stumbling in his haste to get out of the door.

To get back to Sherlock.

Mycroft settled into the booth across from Lestrade, and cupped his chin in his hands, all pretense of business forgotten.

"Gregory, why do you think that you're just a shag?"


	22. Chapter 22

The walk back to 221B was brisk and unnervingly silent.

It may have been the alcohol quickly burning it's way out of his system, but his heart was pounding in his ears.

Sherlock was home, and was upset that he wasn't.

But Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't want to see him.

Hadn't he?

The doctor shrugged, fumbling to shove the key into the lock.

The door swung open, revealing the pitch black of the stairs, only faintly illuminated by the street lamp glowing through the closed curtain.

John rubbed his face lightly, shutting the door before carefully maneuvering up the steps.

He made it to their door, before taking a fortifying breath and stepping over the threshold.

The first thing that struck him was how still it was.

There was a complete absence of sound.

No humming electronics.

No rumbling of air in the vents.

No clinking of palettes against beakers, orglass slides against a microscope.

Everything was still.

Except-

John tossed his coat onto the hook quickly, toeing off his shoes before turning to face the room.

His mouth fell open.

Everything was awash in the soft light of dozens of tea lights, enough to strike a note of fear for the fire hazard of it all.

Even Sherlock's prize skull had a candle in his mouth, the light glowing through his eyes.

John didn't know weather to burst out laughing, or run for his life.

The display went far past anything that he could ever had imagined from his Sherlock Holmes.

It was so uncharacteristic, in fact, that the doctor stepped back out of the room, counted to ten, and stepped back in.

Nope.

Everything is real.

"Sherlock?"

John called, he was dismayed to find that his voice squeaked.

Quite literally.

"'m in here, John."

The doctor frowned.

He was in the living room?

The doctor stepped gingerly into the center of the room, his gaze scanning until it came to rest on the couch.

And the oatmeal colored bundle sitting there.

Specifically, Sherlock, his legs tucked into John's favor even jumper, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

His chin was resting on the divit between his knees, creating the image of a head on a cream colored pedestal.

For the second time in as many moments, John didn't know which emotions to display.

Confusion worked.

"Sherlock, are you alright? What happened? Why are you in my jumper? Did the power go off? Sherlock?"

The detective's shoulders were shaking now, his face buried in his knees.

"Oh god, Sherlock."

The doctor flopped onto the couch gently resting his hand on the detective's shoulder.

He looked up, his eyes red with tears, but his lips pulled into an unmistakable grin.

He was laughing.

"John."

A pause.

"Your shirt John."

The doctor leaned back, glancing down at his shirt once more.

"What? Is it too tight? I mean, you are a good size smaller than-"

Sherlock's grin was widening steadily, once more unnerving the doctor.

"I was laughing at the idiotic pun, or rather the fact that I actually wore that on several occasions. Now that you mention it though, it is rather tight."

The detective openly admired the view.

"Yes well."

Sherlock shifted on the couch turning so he was no longer side by side with the doctor, the jumper riding up to expose his bare ankles.

John glanced down at them, and then back at the detective, his brow furrowing.

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

John nodded.

"M'kay."

There was a moment where neither man looked at each other simply attempting to maintain their composure. One glace between them and they lost all control. John's high pitched giggles were underscored by Sherlock's low rumble.

"God. What are we doing here Sherlock?"

The detective frowned.

"What do you mean?"

The doctor sighed leaning back.

"I mean, what are we doing here. In our flat. Surrounded by candles. You're half naked."

The detective stretched his legs out then, splaying them across his blogger's lap.

"And I'm pretty sure you were royally pissed at me a few hours ago. I mean pissed enough that you climbed out of your fucking window."

Sherlock hung his head, covering his face with his hands lest he burst out laughing again.

"I didn't go out the window John."

The doctor leaned back, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"What? I searched your room, you weren't there."

The detective glanced up,still barely suppressing a grin.

"I was under the bed."

John stopped, his mind processing the new information.

"Under the bed. Right."

Another pause.

"So you heard everything I said then."

John gestured around the room.

"Is this what this is then? Hell what is this anyway?"

The detective wrung his hands nervously, though his voice remained calm.

"An apology. I may have overreacted. I've read that gestures like this go a long way towards making up a wrong doing to ones lover."

The doctor ran his fingers over the sensitive flesh on the back of Sherlock's ankles.

"You do realize that I was never upset. Well, with you at any rate. More with myself for not being as quick on the uptake as I should have been. I know that this is new for you."

He felt the detective tense, and moved his hands to rubbing his feet, calming him.

"Would you like to know why I was so jealous?"

Sherlock said after a moment.

John paused, and then shrugged, indifferent.

"If I had to guess it's about an earlier comment on my leaving you. Which isn't going to happen, by the way."

The detective's nose crinkled as the doctor found a particular sensitive spot between his toes.

"I wouldn't blame you if you did, you know."

John smiled, a warm, genuine smile.

"I know. Still isn't going to happen."

Sherlock shrugged,the singular item of clothing riding dangerously high on his hips.

"It might."

John licked his lip as his gaze caught the extra few centimeters of exposed flesh.

"Sherlock, we can either talk circles around this point. Or-and I'm partial to this plan- we can try out a few of the things I picked up today."

The detectives eyes widened at the forward comment, and then narrowed in suspicion.

"That's a surprisingly big jump there Doctor Watson."

The doctor sighed, hanging his head, before swing Sherlock's legs from his lap. In one swift move he was straddling the detective's thighs, the suddenness of the movement startling him.

"I'm choked full of surprises."

The detective smirked, his fingers splaying over the cotton that was pulled tight across his blogger's chest.

"You know, you look great in my shirts. I may need you to wear them more often."

John smirked, stooping down and ghosting a warm breath over the detective's cheek.

"I was thinking the same thing, though right now I'd settle for you in nothing, if that's alright."

Sherlock nodded, his lips turning to be closer to John's, his body instinctively rising.

John sat back up, pulling the detective after him and divesting him of the offending jumper.

He gazed down at the now naked Sherlock, and was more than a little surprised to faint traces of cum already streaking his stomach and thighs.

"Sherlock?"

A rosy blush covered the detective.

"I've been waiting for you to get home sine you left. It didn't help that I knew you were going to be wearing my shirt. Honestly John, despite my analytical exterior, I have a dangerously creative mind."

The doctor was stuck between painfully aroused and absolutely flattered by the detective's statement.

"You thought of, me, and-"

"Yes."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed John through his jeans.

The doctor gasped.

"Really. I've already came four times by myself today. Please don't make me do it a fifth."

That was far more input than the doctor could rationally handle. He descended, one hand weaving into Sherlock's curls holding him in place wile the other tweaked the detective's nipple.

Their moths collided, teeth and tongue and raw, hungry need.

Far to messy to be artful, but the sheer pleasure of heat, of friction, made up for the total absence of finesse.

Sherlock's hand was pinned between the doctor and himself, yet still firmly within grasping range of his blogger's crotch.

He fumbled with the fly working loose the buttons and quickly tugging down the worn zipper.

He really should be more thankful for John's favorite old pair of jeans.

His hands fund the soft red cotton of John's pants once more, and the doctor hissed into his mouth, rubbing his clothed crotch dangerously close to Sherlock's uncovered one.

"Bed now."

John managed, earning a throaty chuckle from the detective.

"No need."

Sheetrock's other hand, the one that had been pinned to the edge of the couch, dug between the couch cushions and pulled up the sleek, red pump bottle that had previously been in the pocket of the detective's dressing gown.

John grinned, moving down to nip at the graceful neck beneath him.

"You really were planning this weren't you."

A sharp gasp filled the air as the hand that had been teasing Sherlock's nipple grazed his cock in passing.

"Yes. Hours John. I've waited hours. Didn't even touch this stuff either. saved..Oh fuck do that again...saved it for you."

John blushed, the sincerity of the statement not lessened by the interruptions.

"Well then."

He moved up and brushed his lips against the Shell of the detective's ear.

"Let's not keep you waiting any long then."

John sat up, tugging the too-tight shirt over his head before awkwardly wriggling out of the rest of his clothes.

He snatched the bottle from Sherlock, opening the bottle and pumping a small dollop into his palm.

He was surprised by the thickness of it, but spread it over his hands none the less.

He moved to touch Sherlock, to relieve some strain, but the detective simply grabbed his hand, placing the doctor's forefinger to his lips.

A tentative tongue flicked over the digit, before drawing it in.

John moaned as Sherlock's tongue wrapped around his finger, the warmth and sensation sinful.

The detective released him with a loud pop, and ran his tongue over his lips thoughtfully.

"Cherry. Very sweet."

The doctor rolled his eyes, before scooting to the end of the couch, Sherlock's legs wrapped around him loosely, his feet dangling over the edge.

He rubbed his hand gently over Sherlock's erection, before trailing the lube coated fingers down to his entrance.

Sherlock tensed as he felt the presence of John's hand at his entrance, but his expression smoothed as the warm gel was spread around the ring of muscle.

"We don't have to do this you know."

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, his own hand stroking himself leisurely.

"I've spent myself four times imagining this. Do you honestly think that I don't want it?"

John had to admit.

He had a point.

With a deep breath to steady his own rattled nerves, the doctor slowly coaxed the tip of a finger in, earning a bitten off whimper from Sherlock.

"Are you-"

John paused, afraid for is partner.

"Keep going."

The detective rasped.

Slowly, gently, one finger was seated, gently plying open the soft tissue and earning a series of inhuman moans from the detective.

John added the second finger with an equal amount of care, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's features.

Always watching for any signs that it was too much, too fast.

He saw Sherlock's hand speeding it's pace, attempting to rush him to completion.

With the precision of a doctor, John brushed Sherlock's prostate, earning him a stomach clenching moan.

"Fuck. Do that again."

John did, and watched as Sherlock squirmed.

"You really are beautiful.

The doctor murmured absently, gently working in a third finger, his other hand stroking the detective's hips gently.

"Don't talk."

Sherlock rasped, his voice reduced to gravel.

"Now."

He whispered, and John obliged, leaning back and slicking himself up.

Sherlock shakily flopped over, his hands placed flat against the couch , his ass in the air.

Open.

Inviting.

John pressed a gentle kiss to the opening, surprising both himself and the detective.

The animalistic growl he earned promised that that would be another avenue to explore, but later.

Now all he could focus on was Sherlock.

The doctor sat up on his knees, the whole of the situation so erotic, that it drowned out that ever-insistent voice in the back of his head that said it was so wrong.

He lined himself u with the entrance, fingers gently smoothing circles into Sherlock's hips as he slid in.

Sherlock hissed against the slight burn and the sudden fullness, tears springing to his eyes.

It was everything that his logical brain had said it would be.

But as John seated himself fully, and let his body adjust to the sensation, the pleasure such fullness gave him was incomprehensible.

He bucked his his against the doctor, who-himself-was struggling to cope with the tight heat surrounding him.

He moved, agonizingly slow for both of them, but necessary.

Until, that is, the ever impatient Sherlock took it upon himself to shove back onto the doctor.

The both gasped, each man seeing white, right on the edge. John didn't want this to be over.

Not so soon.

He stopped. pulling nearly completely out. holding Sherlock, regaining himself, before continuing.

His pace grew in time with the whimpers and moans spouting from the detective.

He reached around and stroked Sherlock, chest to back in white heat.

Three strokes to Sherlock's prostate, and the man came, his back arching against the pressure of John, his muscles spamming around him, milking John through his own orgasm.

Neither man shouted as they came, the at its self stealing the breath from them.

They collapsed like that. Sherlock in a heap with a barely conscious John atop him.

John managed to pull himself out and snag the blanket from the top of the couch, draping it over them before he fell into the embrace of slumber.


	23. Chapter 23

The morning greeted a very uncomfortable John laying atop a snoring Sherlock.

He was sore, his skin was tight with sweat and dried cum, yet he couldn't bring himself to ove away from the detective who was cuddling him like an over-stuffed bear.

Really, life could be so cruel.

After nearly fifteen minutes of deliberating between going back to sleep and getting up, the doctor was finally overcome with is discomfort.

He rolled over, landing in a heap on the floor, the loud thud not even jostling the detective.

_If he sleeps that soundly after sex-_

John pulled himself up-rite with a groan, stretching and pulling at his stiff muscles, muttering obscenities with each pop of his spine.

He was far too old to be crashing the couch like that.

The dimness of the room didn't match the time it should have been, and as the doctor peered out his curtains, it became apparent that the clear skies of the past few days ad fled.

Rain powered heavily from near-black skies.

The smell of ozone hung thick in the air.

Great.

The doctor made his way to the bathroom, attempting to flick on the light, but was met wit ha dead switch.

Oh.

Right.

Sherlock said that the power went out last night, hence the candles.

But it should be fixed by now, right?

John rubbed his face tiredly, snatching Sherlock's dressing gown from the hook before padding to the breaker box in his closet.

It didn't take him long to notice that the main switch had been tripped.

Of course Sherlock would need to create a reason to be romantic.

John rolled his eyes, stomping down the stairs, rattling the doorknobs and slamming the doors in an effort to wake his partner.

It was the sound of the shower turning on that finally roused the detective from his sleep.

"Fuck."

Sherlock groaned, as the ache in his body consumed him.

_Everything__, _hurt.

Every muscle in his body,every nerve he could feel ached from the physical exertion of the previous night.

Not to mention the dull burn in his core.

Though he couldn't bring himself to despise that burn.

It was what proved to him that he was his blogger's.

John.

There was a niggling memory pulling at the back of his skull.

One of a black suitcase left discarded in the heat of the moment.

Curiosity won over comfort as the detective pulled himself upright.

He staggered to the door, snatching he black carbon case, tossing it onto the couch with a soft thud.

He paused a moment to appreciate the leather couch that graced their apartment.

A couch now spotted with the dried remnants of the night before.

_Easy clean though. _

He sat on the table in front of the case, examining it carefully.

Carbon fiber shell.

Expensive.

Durable.

From Mycroft.

He cracked it open, paying specific attention to the way it opened and the sound it made.

New, only opened twice.

Once to fill and once by John to see the contents.

Throwing it open he riffled through the contents.

New jumper.

Fine quality wool.

Color doesn't suit John.

Experiment on later.

Three manila folders, each marked classified.

Two cases and some paperwork for John.

Sherlock opened the one with the paperwork,and raised an eyebrow at the sheer variety of forms.

A revised roommate agreement?

Pre-nuptial contract?

Why would John need a pre-nup if he hasn't-

Oh.

There, next in the stack.

Application for a civil partnership.

"Mycroft!"

The detective was furious.

How dare his brother meddle in his personal life.

He hadn't said anything about the British Government's relationship with DI Lestrade.

How dare he try and scare John away.

And yet.

Sherlock rubbed his face and ruffled his hair, trying to get his thoughts together.

John obviously had't been too frightened by Mycroft's idea, as he had gone along with all of Sherlock's plans and had _stayed_ with him.

But what did he think?

Did the doctor like the plan?

Did he hate it?

Was he just waiting until today to bring it up?

Was he completely ignoring it?

The detective simply couldn't muster up an answer.

He made one final pass over the contents of the case,his eyes first ignoring, and then returning the the small black cube in the corner.

He picked it up gingerly and ran his fingers over the sleek black square.

Compact.

Lightweight.

Jewelry.

He popped the lid, and nearly had to bite his cheek to keep from making a sound.

Inside were two titanium rings, each sized-no doubt- for the two occupants of the flat.

It was all here for him.

All the tools for the genius consulting detective to keep his blogger with him forever.

A flash of lightning brightened the room for a moment, followed by a clap of thunder.

Yes, it was indeed, all there.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:Final Chapter for Circle. Look for the next story in this series, 360 Degrees. Thank you for all of the comments and support. I really do hope that you've enjoyed this story as much as I have. Epilogue coming soon!**

When John Watson stepped out of the shower,he felt as though something had shifted in the air.

The heaviness of the storm had become oppressive, foreboding.

Every breath that he dragged into his lungs seemed to be made of water.

The simply functions of drying off, brushing his teeth and fixing his hair seemed to drag on.

"He wrapped himself up in Sherlock's dressing gown once more, hoping that the cool silk would dispel the anxiety coiling in his stomach.

Instead, it felt shilled, and heavy.

The opposite of what he wanted.

He trudged into the living room, the feeling of dread growing as he entered the kitchen.

Within he was surprised to see a fully dressed and mostly groomed Sherlock pouring hot water into two mugs.

His curls were surprisingly damp, the excess water staining the collar of his shirt.

"Sherlock, how, in the world, did you manage to shower and dress before I did? With me in the shower for gods sake."

The detective smiled, but it seemed forced, like the smile he gave the families of victims to pry information from them.

"I used Mrs. Hudson's shower. It really is convenient having that second bath."

John rolled his eyes, flopping in to his chair with huff.

"You could have popped in with me you know, I wouldn't mind."

The detective's smile grew warmer, and he placed the mug and a piece of jam-smeared toast in front of the doctor.

John was presently surprised.

"What's all this then? Candles last night, breakfast in the morning? You're getting downright domestic."

The detective frowned at the word, his fingers fidgeting with the small cube in his pocket.

"Is domesticity necessarily a bad thing? I mean, you've spent much of your adult life looking for a woman to settle down with and have your 2.5 kids,your house with the lawn, and a private practice of your own."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, pointedly glaring at the detective.

"Yes, and then I went to war, got shot, came back to London and met you, you git."

The detective looked confused.

Hurt even.

John's glare softened and he reached across the table for Sherlock's hand.

"I didn't mean that in a bad way. I wouldn't change this for the world. The cases, the adventure. You said danger and I came. I love you for you, and all your quirks,not for the option of settling down with the 2.5 kids, the house with the lawn, and the private practice-as you put it."

Sherlock's grin was threatening to break pen his features, and he drew the cube from his pocket.

John's sharp intake of breath and the sudden stiffness to his features molded the detective's next few words.

"I'm going to propose to you now, Doctor John Hamish Watson. Don't be alarmed. As attached as I am to you, as much as I, err, I love you- marriage civil partnership, what have you- really isn't my area."

The doctor relaxed slightly, but his features remained guarded.

"That being said, it has come to my attention that my brother has brought my trust to the forefront of your attention."

John nodded, once.

He could feel Moriarty's bombs strapped to him again.

One wrong word and the world could collapse around him.

"So I was considering the possibility of an engagement. If only for the benefit of a little extra money to subsidize what you will be loosing from the surgery."

John's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why would I be loosing money from the surgery?"

Sherlock gave the doctor his patented you-really-can't-be-that-thick-John looks.

"I plan on you missing quite a few days of work."

The innuendo lacing the phrase had the doctor's mouth watering.

"So all I have to do is pledge to eventually pledge myself to you for the rest of my natural life,and it's easy street?"

The detective popped open the box.

"With the added perk off me in the mix."

John rolled his eyes and snatched the cube from Sherlock's grasp.

He stood and walked around to the other side of the table, sitting on the edge and twirling the box in his fingers.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to say yes, on one condition."

Sherlock turned to stare at the profile of his blogger.

"And that is?"

John took a deep breath, and turned to him.

"That you promise me that we will never get married."

The detective laughed, a genuine laugh that shook him to the core.

"Yes, John of course."

The doctor let out the breath he had been holding and pulled the larger of the two rings from the box.

He slipped it onto his finger and stared down at it in wonder.

"You do realize that we can't wear these outside of the flat,right?"

Sherlock nodded, flipping the black velvet lining up , pulling two thin silver chains out.

"It appears Mycroft thought of that as well."

Sherlock took John's ring from him and looped it onto one chain, hooking it around his blogger's neck, before repeating the process himself.

The simply sat there for a moment,staring at each other, before they each burst into laughter.

"Shall we call Mycroft and inform him of our engagement?"

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the table.

"Apparently not."

**THE END**


	25. Chapter 25

Three weeks after the engagement at baker Street, Sherlock Holmes had become a household name.

The solving of the numerous cases by the Reichenbach Hero had brought him several new cases, leaving little time for his new-found personal life.

John was worried.

The press would turn,and when they did turn,they would turn on Sherlock.

Moriarty was back, the trial progressed, and the relationship of the Detective and his blogger grew tense.

Suddenly it was all on Sherlock.

He was the villain, the murderer, the puppeteer behind the strings.

John never lost faith, never doubted,never stopped loving his detective.

His heart stopped when he saw his best friend, his partner, standing on that roof top.

The only thoughts running through his mind were _Oh God No. _and _You machine John Watson._

He listen to Sherlock's call, committing every detail to memory.

Every nuance of his voice, every shake and breath and pause.

Then the words.

"Goodbye John."


End file.
